


Reparations

by deweydell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2563286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deweydell/pseuds/deweydell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Theodore, Pansy, and Draco pay their debts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Currell Court

The rain was just starting to come down when Theodore Apparated into the entrance hall of his building. He said the incantation that opened the door and started up the five creaking flights of stairs to his flat.

He seldom bothered to lock his front door, and as he opened it to the long narrow room he occupied, he conceded that there was probably not much point in doing so. His eyes passed over the rumpled mattress in the corner sitting on the floor, the card table facing the opposite wall, the wireframe shelf holding the record player and the records. There was little here that would be worth the effort of even climbing the stairs to get to.

That this room held nearly all that remained of the Nott family estate was difficult to comprehend. Theodore wondered what had become of their heirlooms, the carefully curated library, the priceless dark objects that had been kept in their Gringotts vault. Some items would have been sold at auction; many would have been destroyed; some collected by the Ministry for national archives; but many things, Theodore suspected, had simply been forgotten and discarded.

The Ministry had seized the estate and the contents of the vault during the course of the investigation and his father's trial, looking for evidence of dark magic as well as more evidence to support his father's long-term collusion with the Dark Lord. Theodore had gone back for his eighth year at Hogwarts to obtain his NEWTs; returning that summer to find his father in prison, their home gone, and their assets forfeit had been rather like waking up to find the world blanketed in snow, as far as the eye could see.

The trial and appeals had dragged on for nearly four years, rapidly consuming what little liquid assets the family had. What had been left of the estate following the investigation and trial had been auctioned and the land sold to pay the war reparations to which Theodore's father had been sentenced. All told, after taxes and settling the rest of the family's debts, barely ten thousand galleons had been left, which Theodore had signed over to his invalid aunt in Harlech. They had not been a wealthy family, but his future had been secure; now, nothing was.

Theodore had no malice about what had transpired. The bureaucracy of court proceedings was so impersonal that at times Theodore felt it had all happened to someone else, that it was just a story related to him by a friend. Perhaps if his father had had Harry Potter to champion him, as he had mystifyingly done for the Malfoys, his father might even now be relaxing in front of their fireplace with the small mountain of newspapers he consumed daily. But the fireplace was gone; the wingback leather armchair and the mahogany furniture and the aged genealogy texts his father kept in the study, all gone too. Only the photograph of Theodore's mother, that had sat smiling on the desk, remained.

A large box next to the record player held all the items Theodore had salvaged from Currell Court. He had hardly known what to collect, so his efforts had ended up random and inadequate - photographs, some letters, odd boyhood mementos, a few items Theodore remembered his parents being partial to.

A representative from Gringotts had been with him, to ensure he didn't take anything of great value, and a younger trainee - he recognized her as the witch from Beauxbatons who had competed in the Triwizard Tournament. The goblin had waited in the drawing room, but the witch had stayed with him, moving from room to room as he did but maintaining a respectful distance. Theodore was very conscious of her presence nevertheless. He could not stop glancing at her out of the corner of his eye - her beauty seemed to reflect on the dim, dusty rooms, making them glow with a ghost of their former glory. Many of the rooms in the house had been turned inside out by the Aurors. Furniture lay overturned, books scattered and splayed open, jars, lamps, vases knocked about. Theodore ignored the chaos and went on about his business, but he heard the woman quietly setting some of the pieces to rights behind him.

When Theodore was finished in the house they went out to the garden. He pretended to look around at some of the statuary, but really he had just wanted to stand out here one last time.

It was a warm day, and the overgrown garden of Currell Court was heady with life. Bright vivid foxglove, just beginning to bloom, had overtaken the bank near the little stream, and he stood at the edge gazing down into the water.

The woman came up to him; her eyes were misty with wonder in the early afternoon sunlight.

" _Ma foi_ ," she said softly. "What beauty."

"It's usually much nicer," he said, before he could stop himself. He did not want to speak to this woman, his  _minder_ , but he could not help wanting to impress her. "It's gone to seed a bit. No one has looked after it in years."

"Yes, I see," she said. " _Tout de même_  - it takes one's breath away. You must have been very happy, to grow up in such a place."

"Occasionally," he said, realizing belatedly that sounded melodramatic. What could he do? He had never been a happy person. "I mean. I suppose so. Yes."

She looked at him curiously. "Happier than now - perhaps?"

He had no response to this. Happy, unhappy, these terms did not seem to relate to his life as he lived it. He broke off a long reed from the marsh around the bank and dipped it into the water.

"Not any less so, at least," he said finally.

"You did not take many things with you from the house. You could take what you like. I would say nothing." She paused. "I do not think it is right, what has happened. You have grown up in this fine home and now you are to go - where? And when you have done nothing to deserve it, and others - they deserve much worse."

"I don't know that any of this was about deserving," Theodore murmured. "I think people are just trying to make some sense - some order out of everything that happened."

Her fist was clenched in her robes, but her voice was steady. "But there has been no justice done," she said. "Order, perhaps, but no justice. These 'reparations' - who do they serve? They cannot bring back the dead or heal the injured. To put a price on death and grief, it should not be done."

"What do you suggest, then?" he asked her.

She gave a tiny Gallic shrug. He watched her collarbones as they rose and dipped, smooth and perfect. "Service, perhaps - some good works to help others," she said, her voice pensive. "It is better for good to grow from evil -  _n'est-ce pas_? Maybe this manor, it could be a public place - a museum inside, with works of art, and the gardens maintained, so that many people could enjoy this beauty."

Theodore almost smiled to think what his father or any of the families being called on to pay reparations might have to say about their ancestral homes being turned into "public places" for all manner of wizardkind to gawk at. He thought it was far kinder to them to let the property be seized and sold - a hostile takeover and swift execution, rather than a protracted, humiliating indentured servitude.

"I'm sure the Ministry has endeavored to find the best solution to suit everyone's needs," Theodore said.

She studied him. "But not yours," she said. "Are you not angry? Or sad?"

 _Always_ , he wanted to say.  _Never_ , he could have responded with equal truth.

"It will be good to have a fresh start," he said instead.

Much good it had done, Theodore thought, as he put water on one of the burners of his tiny efficiency kitchenette. He decided to smoke a little and put on a record while he made dinner, and had just chosen an album when there was a tap at the window.

Theodore could not think of anyone who would be sending him an owl, but the bird was indeed carrying a letter addressed to him. He did not receive mail often enough to keep owl treats on hand, so the bird ruffled its feathers and flew off in a haughty way.

He left the window open and sat on the ledge, the rain beating monotonously on the fire escape. He took a drag off his small pipe, exhaled, and opened the envelope.

The invitation inside was heavy parchment, the card elaborately embossed in silver. In elegant black script was written:

_You are cordially invited_

_to attend a celebration honoring the engagement of_

_Mister Gregory Evan Goyle and Miss Bianca Ellen Bedford_

_on Saturday, the twenty-ninth of March, 2003_

_at Brancebeth Hall_

He stared at the invitation for several long moments; he did not know how long. The sound of the water boiling over recalled him, and he went across the room to the kitchen area.

Goyle was getting married. Gregory Goyle, that beast - that  _animal_  - had found a woman who had agreed to marry him, and they were going to celebrate this occasion, the end of the human race's proud march of progress over the past several millenia.

There was not a single quality of Goyle's that did not repulse Theodore; his sole saving grace was that he was not Vincent Crabbe. He could not begin to imagine the woman who had consented to marry him, and did not want to. The Bedfords were a new branch of an old family, wealthy but from undistinguished stock, and anxious to move onwards and upwards. After the war, when the Rowles had lost Brancebeth Hall, Benjamin Bedford had swooped in and bought it up. Goyle was likely a similar acquisition, a brooch the family could don to show off the elite status they had bought their way into.

And yet no matter the conditions, this woman had accepted him for a husband. Theodore could think what he liked of Goyle - no matter how revolting he found the man, it was undeniably true that his future prospects were a sight better than Theodore's. In five years, Goyle would be married, rich, and overseeing beautiful Brancebeth Hall, all without ever having worked a day in his life. Theodore might have gotten a promotion at work, might be living in a nicer flat, in a nicer town; but all that remained of the Nott family legacy would still be able to fit in a box.


	2. The Invitation

Pansy had received the invitation while she was having dinner. After glancing over at her father to make sure it was all right, she had opened the envelope and removed the card, but immediately wished she hadn't.

Her older sister Viola, peeping over her shoulder, exclaimed: "Ooh! Another one!"

In a trembling voice, Pansy had asked to be excused. She had barely shut the door of her bedroom before she ripped up the invitation, then flung herself down on the bed and wept.

Once the storm had subsided, Pansy pulled herself up, sniffling, mended the invitation and with another flick of her wand pinned it to the colorful corkboard where she kept lists and notes for herself. It was the second engagement announcement she had received this month. The second reminder that Pansy was  _not_ getting married. Not now, maybe not ever.

Viola banged loudly once on the door and then threw it open. She saw that Pansy had been crying despite Pansy's swift attempt to cast brightening charms on her face and rolled her eyes.

"You're pathetic," Viola told her. "Mother wants to know if you're coming downstairs for dessert."

"No thank you," Pansy snapped.

Viola smiled. "I told her you'd be eating very daintily for the next month," she said. "More for me and Sweet Pete when he comes home for Easter."

Peter was their younger brother - the only person in their family everyone could agree they liked. Pansy wished Peter were here now instead of wicked Viola, playing games with Pansy and showing her his Chocolate Frog cards.

Viola paused at the door. "You've got to stop," she said, her voice serious. "It's just wretched. Especially after everything he's done to you."

Pansy told her sister to get out, in terms that would have brought tears to their mother's eyes. Viola threw a half-hearted curse at her that dissipated in a dramatic poof before it reached Pansy and left the room.

"Close the door," Pansy yelled after her, sinking back down onto her bed and pressing a pillow over her face. Viola ignored her.

 _Especially after everything he's done to you._ As if Pansy did not remember. As if she could forget. The litany of terrible things he had done to her kept her up at night; invaded her dreams and shook her in her sleep; cast clouds over what might, in some other time and place, been happy moments. She envisioned how delighted she would have been, years ago, to show up to Goyle's engagement party on Draco's arm; how proud she would have felt, more beautiful and powerful than a queen. The joy she might have felt was like tiny glass shards piercing her heart, and Pansy felt the tears begin again.

It had been the trial that had destroyed him for once and all. After the events of their sixth and seventh year, Draco had been edgy, snappish, barely sleeping, but his and his father's trial and the press coverage that attended it had pushed him past his limit. Her heart broke to remember him sitting in court, his face a mask, as they combed in exhausting detail through every event of the past two years. It had done him terrible damage to live through it once; to relive it in front of all the world had been unendurable.

Pansy had not returned to Hogwarts for the repeat year so that she could be with him, to support him, but Draco had only pulled away. He had started spending time with new friends; he had become evasive, hiding things from her, and would suddenly flare up and scream at her when she would ask innocent questions about his day. His behavior confused and frightened Pansy, and she saw Draco fighting often with his parents, almost as much as he fought with her.

Once they had all been sitting at dinner and a vicious fight had roared up out of nowhere; it had happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that Pansy genuinely could not remember what had started it, but she remembered the aftermath in vivid detail.

"Get the fuck out of my face," Draco had spat at his parents, and left.

When the door slammed behind him. Mr. Malfoy excused himself from the table and quit the room. Mrs. Malfoy rested her forehead on her palms and began to weep, her face crumpling into lines of anguish.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Pansy gasped, appalled and close to tears herself.

Mrs. Malfoy looked up with some wonder. It seemed she had forgotten Pansy was there.

"Oh, Pansy," she said, sounding miles away, like a bad connection on the Floo network. "Would you like to take the car home, or can you Apparate?"

Pansy said she would Apparate. As she was seeing herself out, she passed by the study and saw Mr. Malfoy sitting in an armchair with a glass of scotch. She hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to be disturbed after the scene tonight, but he inclined his head toward her and she knew he had seen her.

"Good night, Pansy," he said, his voice like two fingers extinguishing a candle.

That night had been the first time Pansy had understood that something was deeply wrong. She was unable to get in touch with Draco for the next two weeks and was half out of her mind with worry when he finally turned up on her doorstep.

"Where have you been?" She stood with her arms crossed in front of the doorway, furious, hurt, and frightened.

He waved away her anger. "Never mind," he said. "Let me in, will you - it's freezing."

"I want to know what's going on!" Pansy was close to tears.

Draco looked more annoyed than ever. "If you must know, right this very second, I couldn't put up with my parents for another minute and I took a holiday with some mates in Croatia. I'm sorry I couldn't owl you, but it was strictly lads only. Now let me in, and I'll tell you all about it, and all the girls they were gaga for who weren't half as pretty as you."

So of course she had let him in, and had asked no more questions, although many had come to mind. Pansy had wanted to believe him; had wanted the whole episode at dinner to be nothing more than a tense moment, blown out of proportion by the pent-up stress of years of pain and worry. But despite her best efforts, as she held Draco in her arms that night, she had felt a chill of fear snaking its way inside of her.

The lies began to escalate; they piled on top of each other until they could no longer sustain their weight and collapsed, echoing thunderously like an avalanche in a tomb. They collapsed again and again, over time and in a flood of tears and accusations and furious denials. Draco would yell at her for not trusting him; demanded what he had ever done to make her doubt him, and when Pansy would try to point to the mountain of lies it had crumbled into dust.

"You're inventing these stories to make your life more dramatic and I frankly think it's pathetic," he hissed at her.

"You're inventing! You're inventing!" she had screamed. "Name me one true thing you've told me this month. I can't think of any."

"If this is just going to be another conversation of you poking holes in everything I say, then I can't do it," Draco had said, his voice brittle. "I can't handle this, Pansy. Either you love me, and you trust me, or you don't. But you can't keep putting me through this - this endless examination. I can't be on trial for the rest of my life."

Pansy had not been able to fight back against this. She knew he was lying, she knew it, but what if he wasn't - that flickering, sputtering flame of hope inside her would not be extinguished, no matter what evidence was presented - and anyway what monster was she to keep fighting with him about this, when he was obviously in such pain? Did anything really matter so much? And so she would give in, and say no more, and sometimes for a while, he would be himself again and she could feel that everything was fine.

She would continue to hope, even after Draco had checked into a rehab facility; a quiet, discreet, but very famous clinic in Montenegro that most people referred to as a "spa." For a while after he got out, things had not been exactly fine - he was absent so often, even when he was present physically; and so frequently he still had those dark shadows under his eyes. But Pansy hoped.

He came over to her home for dinner one night. Seeing him in her doorway, looking healthy and smiling, her heart felt like it might stop right then. They took a long walk together through the woods near Pansy's house. He had dinner with her family, and played chess with Peter, who was home for the summer holidays; and that night he had sneaked into her room, as they always used to do when he stayed over, and whispered how much he loved her as he made love to her. After, they lay in each other's arms and he stroked her hair and thanked her, his voice breaking a little.

But it had all been a dream that turned to dust when she awoke. In the morning Draco was gone, and he had taken with him at least five hundred galleons - from her and from her parents - as well as some items, like a delicate goblin-made glass vase that had been one of her grandmothers' wedding gifts, that he had probably thought he would be able to sell off. Her parents and even her sister had had no recriminations or harsh words for Pansy. After that morning they spoke of the incident only once, when her father had gently told her that Draco wouldn't be welcome at their home in the future.

She heard little of him for the next few years, but headlines in the  _Prophet_ and various tabloids told a compelling narrative of arrests, overdoses, opinions from popular healing experts who had never met Draco, wild antics and parties and more. Most frightening of all was six months or so ago, when the headlines had stopped.

Pansy had not been able to bring herself to ask Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy how Draco fared. Most of all, she was terrified that they might not know, either.

"Penny?"

There was a soft rat-a-tat on the door frame that she recognized as her father's knock, and he poked his head into the doorway. He was carrying a small bowl of custard.

"I know you said you didn't want dessert, but it's butterscotch."

Pansy sighed, sat up and accepted the bowl. Her father stood awkwardly across from her, looking as though he wanted to speak, but Pansy stared down at his feet and would not meet his eyes.

Finally he said, "So. Another wedding."

She sighed. "It's an engagement party," she told him. "Not a wedding."

He nodded, still watching her. She trailed her spoon around the little glass bowl, half-empty now.

"You're still so young, Penny," he said. "You have so much time. I just want to see you make good use of it."

Where her father saw time as the sand in an hourglass - something to set one's watch by, steadily but inexorably trickling away - Pansy had thought of it as something that could be gathered in measuring cups, carefully apportioned and, if one followed directions precisely, would produce the desired results. At some point in the past few years, however, it had become clear that none of the directions she had followed were going to produce much of anything, and she was left to start over with half of what she had first begun with and no sense what to make with it.

Her father leaned over her, kissed the top of her head, and left.


	3. The Engagement Party

The path leading up to Brancebeth Hall was nearly a third of a mile and uphill all the way; Theodore found himself shamefully out of breath and slightly disheveled when he reached the crest of the hill, where the manor sat. He thought about taking a moment to collect himself or try to tidy his hair, but glancing down at his cheap green dress robes, he decided there was little point - he would already be the shabbiest-looking person at the party.

He was greeted by two elves at the door, who checked his name against a list and ushered him into the garden. A glass of champagne was pressed into his hand, and he was alone in a sea of familiar faces who were nonetheless strangers to him.

He spotted drab Daphne Greengrass, her thin lips pressed together in an expression of perpetual distaste; Adrian Pucey, that famous idiot; sugar-sweet Lila Urquhart; George Vaisey, flirting predatorily with Tracey Davis; Marcus Flint, picking his teeth with his fingernail; not one among them whose company he had missed.

Theodore milled around for the evening speaking to a few people but mainly observing. He had never shared many common interests with most of his housemates, but now lacking a recent winter holiday in Malta or top of the line broomstick to brag about, Theodore found himself feeling even more awkward and out of place than usual.

"Nott," a voice said from behind him. "Wasn't expecting to see you here."

Theodore turned. Blaise Zabini was leaning against a trellis, sipping champagne and gazing disaffectedly into the crowd. Immaculately dressed in rich scarlet robes, Blaise as usual made Theodore feel like a human-sized pile of dirt.

"I couldn't miss the chance to celebrate this special occasion with so many old friends," Theodore said, accepting another glass of champagne from a passing elf. "Are you just arriving?"

"Straight from Johannesburg," Blaise said. "I had an engagement I couldn't break there this morning. The climate's not a pleasant adjustment, I can tell you."

Theodore had smoked too much before he came, and the lingering effects of the weed combined with the champagne and the Fine Focus elixir he had swiped from the lab at work were making his head buzz. Zabini observed him up and down and inclined his head with a questioning look.

Theodore nodded. They stole away to a more private part of the garden to smoke.

"This isn't bad, Nott," Zabini said, exhaling and coughing slightly. "Glad you're keeping up some of your standards." His gaze trailed over Theodore's unpolished shoes.

"Just the important things," Theodore said dryly. "What's new with you?"

The surest way to get Zabini off one's back was to ask him about himself. Like most people Theodore knew, Zabini relished talking about himself, but unlike most others, Zabini's life was occasionally interesting.

Blaise had traveled to more places than Theodore had ever heard of. In just the past year or so he had jumped from a waterfall in Thailand, slept under the stars out in the desert in Jordan, flown by broomstick through the limestone crags in Halong Bay, seen sharks in French Polynesia. But for all Blaise's many adventures he really only told one story: he had gone to a beautiful exotic location somewhere, but it was actually a hovel, and the women were either ugly or whores.

"Everyone goes on and on about how amazing it is, but Vietnam is simply a cesspool," Zabini said with a sigh. "It's absolute chaos, and the people will rob you blind of anything that's not pinned down. The women that approached me there - well, let's just say they make Goyle's blushing bride look like a centerfold."

"Have you met her? The future Mrs. Gregory Goyle? A lucky woman."

"I've seen her from across the garden," Blaise said. "The only distance from which one can fully appreciate her charms."

"They're a handsome couple."

"Hard to say which one is handsomer."

Theodore chuckled, holding the tip of the wand over the pipe to light it. "Heard anything from Malfoy?"

Blaise shook his head, accepting the pipe as Theodore exhaled and passed it to him. "I thought he was in Prague a while back, but I didn't look him up when I was there. I can't party like that anymore. He's in pretty deep." He exhaled. "Parkinson's here - I saw her drinking too much and glaring daggers at Lila Urquhart. She probably knows what's up with Malfoy. Did you hear Urquhart just got engaged as well? To _George Vaisey_?"

"Oh, dear. Someone should tell Vaisey."

It sounded like there were about to be toasts of some kind made, so Blaise and Theodore made their way back to the party. A few people glanced around when they returned - Theodore belatedly realized he had smoked far too much and began to feel anxious all over. He saw Terence Higgs glance his way as he was leaning down to whisper something to a pretty girl Theodore didn't recognize, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest because he knew they were talking about him - everyone was talking about him -

He turned to make his way into the house when a girl in pale gossamer blue robes pushed past him roughly. Nott stood frozen for several moments, barely breathing, fully certain that everyone at the party had seen that, and that they were watching him right now, their faces full of judgment and scorn, and perhaps if he were as still as possible and didn't look up they would turn away and ignore him.

Carefully, slowly, he picked his way across the garden toward the manor. The girl in blue turned as he approached and he saw that it was Pansy Parkinson.

_Oh, no. Oh shit._

Pansy was frowning at him darkly and saying, "If Tracey sent you over here to talk to me, tell her I'm fine and she needs to leave it alone. I just want a little privacy right now."

Theodore attempted to tell her, with his eyes, that that was also what he wanted, but he was unable to speak.

"What's wrong with you, Nott?"

He sat down, very still and straight, on the long wicker sectional on the patio. He could not look at her and so stared straight ahead. Pansy made him nervous under the best of circumstances, and now, when he was baked out of his mind and she was wearing sparkly silver slippers and a dress that looked like it had been carved with a very fine knife out of creampuff clouds into wispy perfection, he was purely terrified and numb in every extremity.

Pansy slumped down next to him with an immense sigh, then gave a start as her champagne glass refilled itself - for the toast, Theodore realized, as his did the same. He stared at it with growing alarm as he watched it refill, sure that it would spill over, and became so anxious that he simply poured it out.

"What are you doing!" Pansy snapped. The champagne began to refill itself again and Theodore quickly set the flute down, as far away from himself as possible.

Pansy had ignored him thunderingly the entire time they had been together at Hogwarts - during class, at meals, in the hallways, her eyes passed straight through him. In seven years together he could count on two hands the number of times she had addressed him for anything more consequential than asking him to pass the jam at breakfast. Theodore would not have had any idea how to talk to her even if she had deigned to speak to him, so he felt this had been for the best.

She had been speaking to him now for several minutes but he had not heard a word she said; the buzzing in his ears was much too loud.

"It's not that I'm not happy for Lila. I'm happy, if she's happy. You know? But she deserves better than a pig like George Vaisey. Pigs deserve better. And you know - I just think that like - we're too _young_ to be getting married, Nott. That's what I told Draco last time he asked me. We have our _whole lives_ ahead of us. We're only young _once_ and this is _it._ Why are we rushing into settling down when we haven't even really _lived_?"

Through his haze, Theodore saw Pansy put down her empty champagne flute and take up the one he had discarded. There was a slight slur in her words, and she did not seem to have noticed the fact that her robes had gathered when she sat down in such a way that left most of her upper leg exposed. Her head was tilted back, resting on the top of the woven seat cushion.

"I'm happy for people who are happy," was all Theodore could manage to say, after several minutes of effort.

Pansy closed her eyes as if he had said something profound that touched her deeply. "Yes. _Yes._ That is so real, Nott," she said, putting her hand on his knee for emphasis. "That's like the thing that is real. People just don't even feel things for other people. They're just wrapped up in themselves. In their lives. Like I tell people that I'm happy. I'm great. And they're like, whatever. They don't want to feel happy for me. I'm independent, I'm figuring things out, and that's okay! So just - be okay with me. You know?"

Nott stared at her. He had a hazy sense that he could relate to what she was talking about, so he nodded. Her hand was still on his knee.

"You seem like you've got it so figured out," Pansy sighed, rolling her head over to look at him. "Free and unattached. Doing whatever you like."

Theodore's heart was pounding alarmingly and he was very afraid, of Pansy, of the crisp spring air around him, the enchanted fairy lights lining the patio; but mostly of doing something incredibly regrettable like kissing her.

She was so surprised she did not respond, but she did not push him away. He pulled back and stared at her, barely daring to breathe. He had one arm resting along the top of one of the cushions; he let his hand fall from the nape of her neck. She was staring, her eyes very wide and unblinking, at his chest, where he could feel his heart pounding madly in every cell of his body.

"I didn't know how free you felt," she said, at last.

"I apologize," he said, unable to meet her eyes as she looked up at him. "Too much - erm, champagne."

But Pansy was leaning in toward him, pulling him toward her, and his lips were on hers again tasting champagne and peach lipgloss. Someone at the party was concluding a toast, and there was a great cheer and enthusiastic clapping.


	4. After Hours

With every step up the creaking, ill-lit stairs, the refrain reverberated in Pansy's head:

_What am I doing here?_

The bannister was loose on the stair leading to the third floor and Pansy slipped. Nott looked back at her briefly.

"You okay?"

Pansy nodded.

_What am I doing here?_

By the time they reached the fourth floor Pansy felt slightly winded, and extremely apprehensive. At the party, she had been flushed and exhilarated by possibilities. The liberal amount of champagne she had consumed made her feel as if she were wearing plate mail and impervious to harm. Why shouldn't she go home with Theodore Nott? She was young, she was free, and after everything she had been through she deserved to have experiences and stories that were all her own, that weren't tainted by  _him_.

But the champagne and the moon rising on Goyle's magnificent green lawn seemed like it had happened a long time ago. She stepped into Theodore Nott's apartment; he murmured  _Lumos_ , and Pansy had to stop herself from gasping with dismay.

It was a dim, dreadful little place, unkempt and rather grimy. He had three sets of lab robes hanging more or less neatly on a clothing rack, but nothing else in the room appeared to have any sort of proper home. Clothes, books - stacks and stacks of books - mugs, jars of ingredients, quills, parchment were littered about haphazardly.

It was cold inside; he had left two windows ajar, which he went over to close. He did not offer to take her cloak and so she stood there, feeling as if she had Apparated unexpectedly to a foreign country.

The cracked walls gleamed white in one or two spots, but on the whole reflected a dull beige under a layer of sticky-looking grime and water stains. The wood floors were discolored in so many spots it was hard to tell the original varnish.

"Do you want… water, or… ?"

Pansy looked up. She realized she had been hugging her arms around herself, partly for warmth, partly to stave off the feeling of mounting horror as the full weight of the situation in which she had placed herself began to sink in.

"Yes - thank you," she said.

Nott nodded, picking up a mug. He went to the tap to fill it with water, then hesitated and performed a quick  _scourgify_  with his wand first.

Pansy did not drink tap water.  _What am I doing here?_ She accepted the mug and took a sip, hating the rank sulphur taste in her mouth.

Nott hesitated, staring at her with a slightly nervous air. He did not seem to know how to proceed, and Pansy was not about to help him. She stood staring a little to his right, her face carefully blank and her arms still wrapped around her torso.

"Is it all right if I - er - put on a record?"

Pansy nodded, looking over at him surreptitiously as he made his way across the messy room to the record player.

He flipped through the records with a look of great intensity, his whole long body bent toward the task. His wide, thin mouth was pursed and his eyes narrowed as he pulled out an album - Pansy could not see the title - and slid it out of its case. He tilted his head up to look at it and Pansy saw all the angles in his sharp face catch the light.

He glanced over at her once, quickly, and Pansy hurriedly turned away to regard one of the corners of the room, the dust and dirt so caked in where the baseboard met the floor that it appeared black.

She heard the scratchy record begin to play, a quiet guitar strumming and a witch's voice softly counting out a beat.

"Is this alright?" Nott murmured, from so close behind her that Pansy nearly jumped. He had his hands on her shoulders, and they moved to unfasten her cloak.

"Oh - that's - it's fine," she said, feeling his fingers against her collarbone. He draped her cloak over the couch and she watched out of the corner of her eye with some apprehension as it slipped, inch by inch, toward the dusty floor.

_All the people are dancing, and they're having such fun - I wish it could happen to me…_

Nott collected the forgotten mug of water from her and set it on the table. He took her hands in his, staring down at them, tracing her fingers, feeling the smoothness of her manicure.

"This is nice," he told her, his voice soft. "I remember - you bit your nails sometimes. At Hogwarts."

How had he noticed? Nott had always been aloof at school, rarely joking or quarreling or even studying with the rest of the students. Pansy had always resented him, believing he thought he was above all of them, too clever and too important to associate with her and her friends.

_Leave the sunshine out, and say hello to never…_

His hands slid from hers and she uncertainly rested her hands at his hips, feeling the rough material of his robes, her fingers twisting in it in some surprise as he kissed her.

Pansy heard her cloak tumble from the coach as Nott pulled her closer to him, feeling a resigned pang as the fine fabric rushed into a pile on the dusty floor.

A sense of complete surreality overtook Pansy sometime around when she slipped her robe off and Nott began to fumble with the complicated slimming lingerie she was wearing.

"What - ?" he finally gasped, completely incredulous.

Pansy could not prevent herself from giggling and was afraid she would be unable to stop.

* * *

 

After they lay side by side next to each other, silent, the record having finished a little while ago. Pansy tried out words in her head.

_I had sex with Nott. I slept with Theodore Nott. Theodore Nott and I had sex._

It had been so different, the experience of having sex with Draco and Theodore. Draco was very vocal - he talked to her, whispered dirty things to her, and he liked for her to talk to him, tell him how much she was enjoying herself, how much she liked what he was doing. Theodore had not spoken at all, but he had looked into her eyes with such intensity that Pansy had felt she was stripped bare under her skin.

She had slept with two people now. She knew other girls, even one or two she thought were respectable, who had slept with more men than that, but it still did not seem right to her. Pansy believed that a woman's virtue was a powerful thing. That she had disregarded it so lightly frightened her.

A part of her had wanted this. She had resented other girls who seemed so carefree, so unencumbered by the restrictions Pansy felt bound by. She watched a girl like Ginny Weasley -  _trash_ , she remembered Draco saying with a sneer - and hated to see how much fun Ginny seemed to have, playing Quidditch and laughing too loudly and eating with gusto and not wearing makeup and breaking rules without even a thought. Pansy had to believe that girls like Ginny would get their comeuppance; maybe they wouldn't be single mothers on welfare, begging in the streets, as Pansy's father seemed to believe, but that they would suffer, and they would be sorry, and Pansy, who had followed every rule laid out for her to the letter, would be rewarded.

But Ginny was engaged to one of the richest and most famous men in the world and Pansy was still waiting, less patiently by the day, for any sort of reward.

A part of her felt very tired, of being Pansy, of being lied to, of following a set of directions that had left her lost and alone. A part of her had wanted this. She wanted to be reckless, to be free, to cut off all her hair or hex someone or go to a rock concert, to ignore seasoned, well-meaning advice and make mistakes and stay up all night and laugh, really laugh, the way no one but Draco had been able to make her.

Nott's breathing was very even beside her, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She chanced a look over at him, and saw that he was  _reading_.

Stunned and frustrated beyond measure, Pansy pushed herself up from the bed and began collecting her robe and undergarments, excusing herself to the toilet to get dressed.

She took a glance at herself in the glass, wondering who the girl could be who was staring back at her, pale in the dim yellow light, mascara smeared around her eyes, her hair mussed. This girl who got drunk at parties and went home with unsuitable boys, she was not Pansy, could not be, because Pansy mocked those girls ruthlessly - girls who weren't worth being taken care of properly. _Trash_ , Draco's voice echoed in her head.

Was this freedom? Pansy did not feel free. She had the sinking sensation that she had compromised something she hadn't been ready to relinquish, chasing after yet another chimaera.

She could not face crying alone in Theodore Nott's abominably filthy bathroom, so with an effort she pulled herself together. Nott had gotten dressed in a hurry and was pulling on a sweater as she opened the door.

"I'll - I can walk you down," he said, looking a little wild as he tried to comb through his hair with his fingers. Pansy wanted to be alone so badly she could barely stand to have another moment in someone else's company, but her dignity would not allow her to refuse being seen out like a lady. She watched as Nott tried hurriedly to yank his shoes on, leaving the laces undone in his haste. His hair was sticking out wildly despite his efforts and he had put his sweater on backwards, but Pansy did not tell him; she felt obscurely touched.

He opened the apartment door for her and they started down the stairs. They seemed even more narrow and menacing on the way down, Pansy's head still reeling from the strangeness of the night.

When she reached the door of the entrance hall, she turned back. Nott stood with his hands in his back pockets, not quite looking at her.

"Thank you for walking me down," she said. Perhaps if she got in late enough, Viola wouldn't be awake to ask questions, but Pansy did not hold her breath.

"No trouble," he mumbled. Pansy's hand rested on the door handle, as she stared at him uncertainly.  _Was this it?_ she wondered. What more could there be?

"It was nice to see you," he said, meeting her eyes. His shoulders were hunched forward slightly and his body looked like a question mark.

"Yes, it was good running into you," she said, hardly knowing what she saying. She could leave now, she thought. She could turn the handle and open the door and Apparate out of the entrance hall and crawl under her blankets and erase this day from her mind. Her hand stayed motionless on the door handle.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, with unexpected tenderness. His body radiated warmth against the early spring chill creeping through the door, and she let her hand slip from the door as he pressed her into the corner of the hallway.

"Will I - I mean - " he voice was soft, just a breath against her cheekbone. "I'd like to see you again."

She nodded, because she knew that, but also partly because right now, when the night had grown cold and he felt so warm, that sounded like it wouldn't be so bad.


	5. Courage

This was the most dismal spring Draco could remember in years. The days dawned grey and chill, and the clouds never seemed to disperse; he could not recall feeling of sunlight on his skin in days.

His eyes flicked across the street, trying to determine the best location from which to Apparate; there were only a few muggles milling about, and it was foggy and overcast, but he didn't want to take any chances. He settled on walking a few blocks away, to an alley behind a restaurant. He had only just gotten his Apparition license back last week, and was loathe to jeopardize it by getting a sighting citation.

Getting his license back had felt good. So far, it was one of the few things. But relying on muggle transportation - or the Floo network, dreadfully undignified - had been humiliating, and he was glad to have at least this measure of freedom returned to him.

His aunt was in the kitchen when he arrived, but she came out to greet him, smiling.

"Lunch?" she asked.

He was not hungry, but agreed to have tea, and accepted milk and sugar. He used to have tea black, but the taste did not appeal to him any longer.

"How was the meeting?"

He chose not to respond. "Where's Teddy?"

"He's with his godfather," she said, stirring her tea. "He and his fiancee wanted to bring Teddy along to her family picnic."

"Lovely day for a picnic," he muttered. "And such charming company."

"Yes, Ginny's family has always been so welcoming to Teddy," she agreed lightly. It was nearly impossible to get a reaction from his aunt, which annoyed Draco. "How was the meeting?"

He sighed, loudly. Why did she bother?

"It was fantastic," he snapped. "Spiritually nourishing. I'm feeling all better now."

She sipped her tea. He would not look at her but could feel her calm gaze resting on him, her thoughtful eyes observing everything that he had no interest in telling her. He felt choked with rage at the intrusion but all the same, the leaden, deadened feeling that had hung over him for so many years remained, imperturbable.

"Have you made any friends in your group?"

He looked at her, incredulous. " _Friends_? This isn't a playdate. I wouldn't associate with any of those people unless I were forced to."

"It imagine that's something rather different for you," she said, and he hesitated for a moment, unsure what she meant by that.

"Well - yes, I mean, it is. An experience I could live without, I assure you. It's not exactly the type of crowd one wants to  _grow old_  with. I'm not like those people. They're junkies, nothing more. The stories they tell - it's repulsive, the things they've done. What they've lowered themselves to." He paused, recalling one girl about his own age who had pawned her own wedding rings; by the time she had come back to get them, a few weeks ago, they had been sold. Her husband had been long gone by then, though. "I don't see how some of them can live with themselves."

"It must take a great deal of courage," Andromeda said, clearing her tea things and heading into the kitchen. Agitated, Draco followed her.

"I don't call that courage," he snapped, watching uncomfortably as she began setting the spells to do the dishes. "If you've messed up like that - like those people - the world's better off without you. Courage is just, getting on with it."

She was silent for a long moment, then said, "People tell me that what Nymphadora did was very brave. And it was, I suppose. Dora was always a brave girl. No one could doubt that." She guided the dishes slowly with her wand, watching their progress with detached focus. "But I think she would have been brave, too - just as much so - if she had stayed with Teddy and me. If she hadn't gone to fight. It wouldn't have looked that way to everyone, perhaps. But to me - being there for the people who love you, the ones who need you - I don't know a more courageous thing you can do."

Andromeda talked often about Nymphadora, the cousin he had never met. She sounded like a foolish woman to Draco, with her loud, unflattering hair and her shabby mongrel husband. He wondered if his aunt would have let him stay here - would have wanted to know him at all - if her daughter hadn't died. He pushed the thought out of his mind.

"I don't really see many of my new  _friends_  rushing off to fight any battles," he said boredly. "So I suppose their loved ones will have to resign themselves to having an Augurey round their necks a while longer."

His aunt smiled at him, leaning against the kitchen sink and folding her arms across her chest. "I'm sure they don't think of it that way," she said, then, abruptly: "Have you thought any more about your mother's invitation?"

Andromeda was always doing that - taking him by surprise with sudden shifts in conversation so that he felt like he was standing on any icy lake, breaking apart without warning under his feet. "I - no."

"I told her you might have an answer by this evening," she said. "It's tomorrow, you know."

He knew. Draco pressed his lips together in a thin line, trying not to look as stressed as he felt and fearing he was failing. "I don't think it's a good idea," he said.

A long time ago Draco had enjoyed Sunday dinners at the manor. His father would often invite important guests to dine with them and would let Draco linger with them after his mother and the wives had gone on to the drawing room. Draco had loved watching his father at work - even when some boorish guest would dominate the conversation for an entire night, Draco would look over at his father and know that he was really the one who was in control.

Very seldom did his father ever exert influence outright; he didn't need to. More often, he was merely "checking in," about this or that legislation or Wizengamot decision or proposed tariff. All of the pieces were already in place, the well-oiled mill grinding smoothly all on its own, his father merely standing by to observe its progress.

Now, Draco was to be the guest. He was the project to be "checked in" on. When was the last time Draco had felt like his father was in control of a situation? It felt like a lifetime ago.

"She'll be disappointed," his aunt said.

Draco shrugged. "She's had plenty of practice at that."

He left the room because he could not bear to have his aunt look at him. She did not follow.

Up in the room he was sharing with Teddy - "your cousin Edward," as his father had stiffly referred to him in the owls Draco had received since leaving the clinic - he took out a book and attempted to read, but he felt too anxious to concentrate. Discussing the dinner with his parents reminded him that this was only a temporary situation - he could not stay with Andromeda forever, and eventually he would be returning to the manor. But how could that ever happen?

He could not remember the last wholly peaceful encounter he had had either of his parents. During the trial things had gone from bad to worse, tense to unendurable. He had screamed at them, he had lied to them, he had stolen from them, he had even tried to attack his father once. And they had done absolutely nothing. Certainly his father had yelled back at him and uttered empty threats and given speeches, but he had done  _nothing_ , he had been helpless, just as he had been during the year Draco had spent the last five years trying to forget.

They had finally thrown him out for good about six months after he got out of rehab the first time. Things had been quiet at home after he left rehab - Draco had not stayed clean for very long, but his parents seemed to have little fight left in them, observing his long absences and vacant stares in silence. When the elf had come to them with what she found, he thought that they had probably felt relieved more than anything.

The first time an elf had found drugs in Draco's possession, she had been memory charmed and then fired on the spot. His parents had grown wiser by the time Hattie was working there. Hattie was instructed to go over Master Draco's belongings with a Kneazle-tooth comb, searching every bag and every pocket, every box and every book, and carry a Sneak-o-scope with her throughout the entire house as she made her rounds. Draco had watched her sometimes in the two-way mirror he had hung in his bedroom. He could not justify the fact that he felt outraged at his parents' lack of trust in him, since Draco knew they had no reason to trust him, but felt outraged all the same.

He had thought about denying it, when they silently confronted him with the evidence, but just imagining going through the whole pointless circus of trying to prove his innocence, accusing his parents of placing no trust in him, insisting finally that he was clean now, and he was trying to move on - it exhausted him. So he did not bother. He was tired of playing games - he wanted to push this strained situation to the breaking point and have the satisfaction of watching it snap.

Whatever Draco had been expecting, however, the resolution proved anticlimactic. Gently, but with finality, his mother told him he could no longer stay at the manor. Draco had barely heard her, watching his father's fingers digging into the cream-colored muslin upholstery of the armchair on which she was seated.

"Nothing?" Draco had spat at him. "You've got nothing to say?"

His father would not meet his eyes. "I agree with your mother," he had said, after a long pause.

"Hiding behind your wife - making her do your dirty work for you," Draco had sneered. "You can't protect your home, or your family, you're still on house arrest, and now you can't even kick out your failure son. What  _can_  you do? What good are you? You're  _useless_."

"Draco, you need to go," his mother said, her tone still soft, implacable. Draco's anger had ceased to move them by this point. In truth, it had ceased to move him, as well.

"I'll go when he's said his piece," Draco snapped.

His father finally looked up at him. "You can hold my actions against me," he said, his cold eyes meeting Draco's own. "And I can't stop you, if that's how you feel. But letting your bitterness destroy your life is your own mistake. Not mine."

Draco had tried to curse him then, blind with hatred and fury, because even now, even when he was abandoning Draco and throwing him out of his home, his father had found some way to shift the blame so that it was not his own fault.

Over the next year and a half he had barely communicated with his parents. They had come to visit him once at the clinic this spring, and that was the last time he had seen them. The encounter had been so stilted and uncomfortable he was in no hurry to repeat it.

What now? Was he to return, the prodigal son, and be accepted back with open arms? That didn't seem like his father's style. It certainly wasn't Draco's.

In these meetings he was forced to attend people droned on endlessly about forgiving. They were forever bleating foolishly about forgiving themselves, or being forgiven, or forgiving others for wrongs they had committed. This seemed utterly wrongheaded to Draco. Forgiveness was an admission of weakness, an act of bowing to defeat. Powerful men did not seek forgiveness - they sought to be right. And when one was powerful - when one was right - what did anyone else's forgiveness matter?

Besides, Draco reflected, watching as the sun set over his aunt's garden, there were things that were simply too terrible to forgive.


	6. The Painting

It had been a long, exhausting day. Viola had dragged Pansy all through Diagon Alley, down Bond Street, and through a few wizarding shops in Mayfair before she had finally declared she was famished and it was time for lunch.

" _Not_ Four Horns," Pansy snapped. She didn't have any particular objection to Four Horns, but she knew it was Viola's favorite restaurant and was feeling resentful.

Viola, however, was feeling magnanimous and gave a tiny, obnoxious shrug. "Wherever you like," she said, examining her reflection in her new hat with her compact.

Pansy chose Hotel Mommacque, which had one of the oldest and best wizarding restaurants in London. It was located in Hyde Park; witches and wizards had to flip a Galleon into a fountain, and the glass revolving door to the hotel would appear in the middle of the green. No one living had ever seen the exterior of the hotel, owing to the extraordinarily powerful concealment charms necessary to keep it hidden from muggles in such a public place, but there was a painting in the lobby showing witches and wizards milling about outside an imposing structure that appeared to be made of solid gold, though Pansy knew it was just an overlay. The painting was hundreds of years old and took up nearly an entire wall; whenever she passed by it, Pansy was seized with a fleeting wish to escape into it.

They were shown to a booth in a corner of the restaurant, which Pansy sank into gratefully. Viola ordered wine for both of them as the elf approached.

"It's two-thirty in the afternoon," Pansy said, annoyed.

"I've had a very trying day," Viola sighed, unconcerned. "I never did find a pair of shoes to wear with the robin's egg blue robes.  _You_ remember. The robes I had to buy for Roberta Beasley's wedding next month, because the ones from Sinclair's had simply become too loose on me, no matter how we tried to tailor them."

Pansy, who in spite of constant effort and obsessive attention had gained over a stone since finishing Hogwarts, restrained herself from hexing her sister across the room with great effort. She took a long swallow of wine.

"Bring the bot over," Viola told the elf who had just deposited their drinks. "We're having  _such fun_."

When he had left, Pansy remarked with some distaste, "I've heard at Hogwarts this year they're going to start  _paying_ all their elves. I hope that sort of thing doesn't become a trend. It treads on tradition - "

"Funny for you to say that," Viola interrupted her, savoring a sip of her wine. "You've been so very untraditional lately."

"What? Just because I told you to get those robes hemmed - "

"Oh,  _Pansy_ , don't start, I'm simply too exhausted to spar with you."

This had never once in Pansy's life been true, so she was instantly suspicious.

"But you must be even more exhausted than I am," Viola added, twirling her wine glass in her fingers so that it caught the light. "You didn't come home until seven-fifteen this morning."

Pansy sat very still.

"I had been wondering why you've had such ghastly circles under your eyes. And you've been looking so  _pale_  - like you've been spending all your time under the covers - "

"I stayed over at a friend's house," Pansy snapped. "We stayed up late talking and lost track of time and she invited me to stay the night - "

"Must have been some  _conversation,_ " Viola cooed. "Who might this friend be?"

"I don't feel the need to justify anything to you," Pansy said stiffly. "I won't have you interrogating my friends - "

Viola groaned so loudly that the party at the booth in front of theirs turned to look. "Merlin, just this once, don't be a drag," she said. "Let's have a little fun. Tell me all about him. Does he mind how pinched your face looks when you glare like that?"

Pansy glared.

"He probably thinks it's adorable," Viola decided. "Quite generous of him. Let's start with easy questions, then. What does he look like naked?"

Pansy hesitated for a long moment. Viola waited with increasing impatience, then finally burst out:

"Just _tell_ \- "

"It's Theodore Nott," Pansy murmured.

"It's - ?"

"Theodore. Nott. From my class at Hogwarts."

There was a pause.

"Oh," Viola said. "Hm."

Viola did not ask any more questions or tease Pansy for the rest of the meal. By Viola standards, she was perfectly pleasant, apart from the condescending look and tiny headshake she gave Pansy when the squeaky-voiced elf offered a dessert menu.

Pansy refused to speak to Viola for the rest of the night. She felt that she had never been more angry with her sister in all her life. How dare she?  _Oh_ , she had said.  _Oh_.

Pansy's fury and resentment mounted through the evening, until, lying in bed about to put the light out, she felt as if she were about to explode. She threw back the covers, slipped on her dressing gown and stormed down the hall to her sister's room.

"Come in," Viola called from inside, robbing Pansy of the pleasure of bursting in on her unannounced.

Viola was lying in bed reading, and looked up placidly as Pansy stepped inside.

"What did you mean," Pansy demanded. "' _Oh_ '?"

Viola regarded her for a long moment, placing her book face down on the bed covers in front of her.

"Sit down with me," she said, and there was a rare note of affection in her voice.

Unwillingly, Pansy sat down at the edge of the bed.

"You've had such a difficult time of it since Hogwarts. I know you think I've been hard on you, for everything that's happened with you and - that idiot - but it's just because I want you to be happy. I really do. And I want you to look after yourself and make good choices. You've never really been any good at that."

Pansy was too tired to take umbrage. She let this all pass without comment.

"I don't want to discourage you in the slightest from moving on from Draco, and having a little fun," Viola went on. "I just want you to be… sensible."

"Sensible."

"This is a delicate time for everyone in our position," her sister said. Her expression was very serious, and Pansy could tell she would not like what Viola had to say. "There's been a shift in opinion, even among our circles. People are distancing themselves from the old ways, or at least they want to be perceived as doing so. You've already been publicly involved with a family prominently tied to the Dark Lord. You can't risk that happening twice. People will start to make associations, and you'll begin to find things very difficult for you, socially."

"That's ridiculous - nothing's changed really, things will go back to the way they were before -"

"Maybe," Viola allowed. "But you're already 23. There isn't time for you to have a bad reputation, Pansy, not when this is when you need to shine the most. You don't want people to see you as a girl who goes round with Death Eaters - and you certainly don't want them to see you as a girl who flits about carelessly. Your conduct has to be above reproach when you're unattached, or people will start to talk. And anything people will say about you behind your back is bound to be worse than the truth."

Pansy could have pointed out that her sister was still unmarried and she was 27. But Viola had been tied up with Bertram Rosier for years - the fact that they were not married yet was Viola's strange whim.

"Well - I've been careful," Pansy said, reluctantly coming around to Viola's position. "I haven't been seen out in public with Nott. He comes to the same parties I do sometimes, but we don't leave together and I don't speak to him much."

"What a sweet little flower you are," Viola chuckled. "Poor Theodore Nott. I remember him a little. Skinny, isn't he? Tall? He came to that little party we had here for your birthday years ago. He was sweet, I suppose. I remember he barely talked to anyone, and he spilled a goblet of punch and was so embarrassed."

Pansy remembered how annoyed she had been, and that Nott had apologized continually while the elves cleaned up. His embarrassment had been made worse by Draco, who had mocked him rather cruelly. Draco usually got on well with Nott, but the other boy had received two more O.W.L.'s than Draco, which had made him furiously jealous.

"His father had heavy fines from the trial, I remember. Didn't they lose their house? And now he's - what - working?"

"Ye-es," Pansy said warily. "At St. Mungo's, actually." That, in itself, sounded satisfactorily impressive.

"Oh? What department?"

How Pansy hated Viola. "In the lab."

"Oh, my."

"He's very nice, you know," Pansy said, feeling desperate. "He's - he's kind."

"Oh, of course. Very nice, I'm sure. Just…"

Pansy waited.

"I just want you to really  _think_ about what you're doing," Viola said, sounding troubled. "I know he's nice. I bet he adores you. But really, Pansy - is Theodore Nott someone who's really worth risking your reputation, your marriage prospects, your whole future for?"

Pansy's expression become closed and remote. Viola knew her point had been received.

"Let's say goodnight and we won't speak of it anymore," she said, smiling gently.

Pansy returned to her bed in a state of hazy unhappiness. Nothing her sister had said to her, really, was anything that she hadn't thought about herself. She knew Nott was unsuitable. She knew she was taking a great risk for extremely silly reasons. She was acting like a fool, jeopardizing everything, for a few hours of inner peace listening to records at his flat, for the butterflies in her stomach when his fingers surreptitiously brushed across the small of her back when he passed by her at parties, for the warm glow that spread over her when he looked at her, when he thought she didn't see.

It was a very silly thing to do, she told herself as she crawled back under the covers. Silly. Foolish. Reckless. She fell asleep repeating this to herself.


	7. Carnival

"Mm," he murmured into her hair.

"Mm?" she asked. He could hear her smiling.

He kissed her neck, just under her ear, and felt her turn her face toward him, so he kissed her again, lower, and kissed her again, because he did not want to stop. She made a pleased sound low in her throat that reverberated throughout Theodore's body and his thoughts moved beyond kissing.

He pulled her back into bed with him and they wasted a morning, dozing and giggling and getting lost in one another, fooling around, making love or lying still, breathing, whispering. These mornings, so rare with Theodore's work schedule, somehow felt eternal, as if they existed outside of time; they could stretch on forever, or maybe they had never happened at all.

They did not exist as a couple outside of Theodore's flat, and so a part of him was strangely convinced that everything that had happened between them was something he had dreamed up. When he thought back on mornings like these the idea that Pansy was in his bed, laughing with him, smiling at him, seemed a surreal, faraway possibility, not something he could hold and touch.

Things were not perfect, of course. The fact that Theodore had little money to take Pansy out was a point of contention, although not as much of one as he might have expected. During the first few months they had been seeing each other, he had felt immensely relieved that this did not seem to matter to her; now he began to suspect that perhaps Pansy was not so disappointed not to be out on the town with him. Even as he became aware of this fact, Theodore was surprised to find he did not really care; he was happy to see her, wherever, whenever she wanted.

And so they existed wholly in his flat, in Theodore's mind, in the rays of sunlight that beamed through his dark curtains. Pansy normally was zealous about being clothed; she would don a nightdress every evening, and dressed immediately upon waking up. But this morning she was comfortable and careless, naked under a loosely-tied silk robe, and as she pulled back the curtains the sunlight shone on her.

"What are we doing today?"

This implied that she wanted to spend the day with him, which was good; but also that he needed to plan some activity for them, which was daunting. The last time this question had come up, they had spent an afternoon in the park; she had seemed pleased, but it was often difficult to tell.

"Well - "

He stalled. He knew if she was asking, she did not want to spend the day in the apartment. Theodore did not have the money to take her out anywhere she would want to go, and he was afraid if he suggested going into London that she would become flustered and make up an excuse about having some previous engagement, as she had done before. Theodore would be happy having a smoke and taking a walk around the neighborhood, but Pansy seemed to require more active engagement.

"There's a carnival, I think," he told her. "In Harehills, by the city center. We could go watch."

She frowned.

"A… carnival? For the … muggles, you mean?"

"I - well - yeah. It's a - West Indian - thing."

Pansy seemed immensely skeptical, but at length she consented. Theodore felt anxious about facing the crowds and wanted to smoke first, but he debated smoking in front of Pansy, especially as it was only just past noon. In the end, his anxiety won, and while she fussed with her hair he quietly packed a pipe. He saw her look over, frowning with disapproval, but pretended he had not noticed.

It was a warm August day, humid and sun-drenched. The parade did not start for another hour, so they wandered around the city center, which smelled of delicious food and spices and was packed with scantily clad muggle women in bright beaded costumes and men in elaborate dress. Many of the muggles had painted their faces, and danced to loud music with a pounding, incessant beat. Theodore, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, felt more out of place than Pansy looked in her bright purple robes.

Pansy at first appeared to be having a good time - she gleefully pointed out some of the more outrageous and scandalous costumes on display, wondering at the muggles' obvious enjoyment in displaying as much flesh as possible.

"Is that how they try to attract one another - do you think?" she asked, fascinated.

Theodore shrugged. "It's hot out and they can't use cooling charms - maybe it's just more comfortable."

"They're practically naked, some of them. What do you think is all this about? Is it some fertility celebration? Are they going to - " she giggled - "are they going to  _mate_ , do you think?"

He snatched her close and murmured into her hair, "If they get started, we might have to join in. You know, so we don't stand out."

She giggled again and pushed him away, half heartedly, but he hung on to her a moment longer before letting go. Lost in a crowd, in the middle of a celebration and among people whose thoughts and customs and costumes were alien to them both, he felt very conscious of being together with Pansy, that they were alone with each other, in the middle of a street overflowing with people. He thought she felt the same, because as she gazed out into the crowd she twined her fingers in his, something she had never done in public before.

As the parade made its way to where they were stationed, however, Pansy's mood began to sour, a resentful look stealing over her blunt features. Always somewhat self-absorbed, she became childishly surly in her bad moods, apt to lash out at anyone or anything.

"I wonder if they know how ridiculous they look," she said, her voice low and filled with bitterness. "Parading themselves like this. What do they have to be proud of? What have they ever accomplished? They're muggles, for Merlin's sake."

"Well - they don't know that, do they?"

"That's just it. They're like children, playing in a sandbox, thinking that's the whole world. They don't even know how insignificant they are! And yet they're the ones who get to have parades - and we're the ones who have to stand by and watch."

Theodore wanted to joke with her, to tease her out of this toxic mood, but he knew she would hate it. He said nothing.

"We should be the ones having parades - if they knew what we've done for them, what we've achieved - but  _we_  have to hide, because these brutes would tear us to bits if they knew about us. Us hiding from _them_ , when we could wipe them out in an instant!"

She seemed to realize what she was saying and stopped herself, but her voice was shaking and she looked as though she were on the verge of tears. He put his hands on her shoulders, but she did not respond, staring at the procession with a hard look on her face.

"Don't you care?" she asked finally, her voice harsh with anger. "Doesn't any of this matter to you?"

Theodore shrugged uneasily, running his fingers down her arms. "There's just not much we can do, really," he said. "It seems - unproductive to think in those terms. Whether it's fair or not, this is what we have."

"There are things that could be done - to give us more freedom, more authority - but every wizard is determined to deny the simple fact that we're  _better_ , and try to pretend as though we're all equal. That people who didn't grow up as one of us should just be accepted with open arms, when they're a threat to us and our way of life - "

"But nothing is  _going_  to be done," he murmured. "Not now. Not after - everything. Things have changed. It's silly to look back and say 'If only.' It's just not that way."

Her voice was cold when she said, "I wonder if it's ever occurred to you that your defeatist attitude is what landed you working as an assistant in a lab instead of overseeing an estate."

Stung, he said, "There's nothing I could do about - "

"How would you know?" she snapped. "You're so willing to just accept things. You never know what can happen if you're willing to fight for something you believe in."

He removed his hands from his shoulders. "Well, I know some of the the things that can happen," he said, as lightly as possible, though he felt a hard pit of anger in his stomach. "You can serve a life sentence in Azkaban. You can be killed, and your family killed. Or, I suppose, you can walk off scot-free because Harry Potter feels sorry for you, and leave everyone else holding the bag."

Pansy's face was blank, but he could practically feel her vibrating with rage beside him.

"Don't you dare," she said quietly. "You have no idea - "

"You fault me for not putting my neck out, but you could spout whatever beliefs you liked, there was never any risk for you!" he hissed, feeding off her anger and becoming more incensed. "You're a  _woman_. You weren't ever going to be out in front."

"I suppose I've failed to appreciate your position," she said, so coldly he drew back from her. "It's not that you didn't care about anything. You just didn't want to risk anything."

"What am I being asked to risk something for?" he asked, suddenly tired. "It was an idea, Pansy. It wasn't a movement, it wasn't a revolution. It was just chaos. It was doomed."

"Too bad so many people agreed with you," she said. "Otherwise, you might still be somebody, and you and I could have had the chance to be something together."

He stared off into the crowd, as if he had not heard her.

They left the parade and went back to his apartment in silence. He suspected Pansy would not have come with him, but she had left her cloak there. He collected the item for her and handed it over, but they did not meet each other's eyes.

She did not leave immediately, however, so he thought this was a good time to tell her he was sorry. Theodore was not particularly sorry, but he felt a sort of frantic fluttering in his chest that made him want to disperse this tension as quickly as possible.

Her expression did not change, but he thought he could see a glimmer of relief in her eyes. "It's fine," she said coolly. "I know you didn't mean it."

He agreed with her, and apologized again, and she allowed him to walk her downstairs and kiss her goodbye. At the door, she smiled and touched his hand.

"I'll see you," she said, and his heart lifted.


	8. Cala Murta

He had wanted to go to Çeşme. His mother lobbied for Brixham. They had settled on Majorca.

The beach resort near Cala Murta was one of the more popular wizarding holiday locations, which was why Draco had been keen to avoid it - he was almost sure to see someone he knew there, and he still felt profoundly uninterested in re-establishing contact with his old friends. Still, his parents had insisted that he should not go away alone, so he had invited Goyle to come with him. Of all his friends, he figured Goyle would be the least likely to provoke any inconvenient heart-to-heart talks.

Draco had never seen Goyle so much as speak to a girl, but he somehow had managed to get himself engaged, and the woman insisted on joining them. Goyle was not thrilled about this, and Draco was less so, because it meant he needed to invite a girl as well.

He had sent Pansy an owl a month or so ago, letting her know he was back in town, but their correspondence had been awkward and terse and he still had not seen her. He decided to give her lunch at the Avalon to test the waters.

Pansy was not there when he arrived, but he was shown to a corner table by the maître d', an unusually small and dignified elf, who bowed low as he placed the menus on the table. Draco tried to enjoy these small tokens of respect, even as he watched heads turning a fraction of an inch in his direction, pretended not to hear the whispers and murmurs around him. He wondered if he should not have given Pansy lunch at the Manor instead, but he thought his parents' anxious attention would have been worse. The interested eyes he felt watching him now had no personal stake in his wellbeing; it was oddly comforting not to be valued as a human being, but merely as an object of interest. He felt no pressure to be interesting, so he felt no fear of disappointing them if he failed.

Most of the diners had lost interest in him until Pansy showed up, which fueled a fresh round of whispers and stares. He had not seen her in over a year but Pansy looked much the same as she ever had. She was wearing a charmeuse robe in grey and cream that fell to her knees, and had her hair pinned up in elegant curls on the crown of her head. He could tell from the cocky tilt of her chin and the small, pleased smile on her face that she thought she looked very fine.

"You look exquisite," he murmured to her as he stood and kissed her cheek in greeting. When they parted, he saw that she was slightly flushed.

"It's such a pleasure to see you," she told him, smoothing her skirt over her lap. "You're looking very well."

"I'm glad - I feel well," he told her, hoping the smile that stretched uncomfortably across his face looked sincere. "How have you been?"

She filled him in on her life - all the various bridal engagements she had been called upon to undertake, the charity events she had attended and overseen, her sister's fiancee's promotion in the Ministry, her brother's appointment as Hogwarts prefect. They passed the entire lunch in this fashion, discussing people and things, sharing successes and accomplishments. They did not discuss Draco's situation, nor his father's continuing probation, nor Pansy's tenuous relationship with her mother; they ignored the whispers around them, the long, hard looks some of the patrons gave them.

It was easy, with Pansy, to pretend that none of that mattered, to focus on their triumphs and others' failures. It was the way it had always been between them, and for the first time in what seemed like a long time he felt as though he could stand upright and not worry that he would waver. For a few hours, it felt very simple, very natural to be Draco, like reciting a poem for a village concert that one had memorized years ago.

They walked for a while through South Kensington, the conversation a little less fluid, the silences beginning to draw out uncomfortably between them. He felt the sense of ease and comfort he had experienced while they were at the Avalon begin to evaporate, dissipating in the crisp autumn air.

Pansy was watching him, with her large, dark, trusting eyes. Even as he knew she worried constantly about the thoughts and opinions of other people, there was an un-self-consciousness about her that touched him; she was so consumed with herself that she had no real idea how she was perceived. Bound up in her insecurities that she wove around herself like a cocoon, she was safe from the dangers that lay outside.

He knew she would accept when he invited her to come with him to Majorca, but he still felt a moment's gladness when he saw her eyes shine before she mastered herself and coolly told him that she would let him know as soon as possible. A moment's gladness, but better than nothing.

* * *

The resort was built into the cliff face bordering the beach, overlooking the water, and Draco found the sight exceptionally more attractive for being quite deserted. It was too late in the season for families with Hogwarts-aged children, and though the beach was enchanted to retain warmth from the few hours of sunlight still available, which made it more comfortable, witches and wizards seeking an autumn beach holiday tended to venture further south.

The four of them were among perhaps a dozen or so guests at the resort, three others of whom were English, four Bulgarian, and a quiet, older Norwegian couple. Pansy's friend Daphne Greengrass, who had been in their year at Hogwarts, was among the English guests, accompanied by a girl Draco did not recognize.

Goyle's fiancee was, as Draco could have guessed, an utter dud. Pansy attempted to engage her with jokes, gossip, and complaints about the grey weather, but Bianca just blinked and smiled placidly, nodding along with whatever was said to her. When she spoke, her voice was low and felt like a hand rocking a cradle. Draco envisioned all the evenings in the future he would spend listening to Pansy and Bianca, Goyle grunting occasionally, and suddenly wanted to be outside of the resort, as far away as he could get.

He excused himself to take a walk along the beach. Pansy attempted to accompany him, but he shook her off after they left Bianca and Goyle. He could tell that she was not pleased, but she smiled all the same and told him she would see him for dinner.

The girl who was accompanying Daphne was down at the water's edge, kneeling in the sand. Unlike most of the guests who were braving the beach, she was wearing a two piece bathing suit, seemingly impervious to the cold. She straightened up as he approached, looking up at him curiously.

At a close distance, he recognized her in an instant - Tori Greengrass, Daphne's younger sister.

"Hullo," he said to her.

She smiled.

She had been a drab little wallflower at Hogwarts, with dishwater blonde hair she had always worn pulled back in schoolgirl plaits. Now her hair was thick and dark, dangling in loose curls down her back, and she had grown up tall, sharp and slender. Above the line of her blue and white striped bikini bottom, her hipbones protruded, impossibly defined.

"Hello," she said. "Rather quiet this time of year, isn't it?"

He agreed.

"What brings you here? In the off season. Are you celebrating?" She had to raise her voice slightly over the ocean wind.

"No,"" Draco lied swiftly, his voice sounding hoarse and abrupt. "Just a - holiday. Are you?"

"Daffy and I decided to come out at the last minute for her birthday - we're ever so glad we did. It's so peaceful."

Draco tried to imagine Daphne, with her face like sour milk, being ever so glad about anything, and failed.

"We've both been staying in the city, you know, and it's been such a breath of fresh air to get away for a little while! I think we all need that now and then."

"What are you getting away from?" The question had escaped him already before Draco realized how odd it sounded. Tori blinked.

"I suppose - that feeling, you know, that you're being penned in on all sides. Very claustrophobic. I love the energy in London - I feel like living there, breathing that in, it's very inspirational. But sometimes you just want to look around you and see nothing and nobody and just sit and be for a while, alone - you know?"

She said the last part in great earnest, and he found he was locking eyes with her, and that her eyes were clear and blue and serious.

"Alone can be claustrophobic in its own way," he said.

She tilted her head, and one long russet curl tumbled over her shoulder. "Then I suppose it's a good thing we're not alone," she said, smiling.

They dined that evening with the Bulgarian guests, who included Viktor Krum, the Quidditch star Draco had befriended when he had participated in the Triwizard tournament. Viktor's girlfriend Nadeja barely spoke, but her sister Ludmila, wearing silver snakeskin robes cut down so low that Draco saw Goyle actually salivate on himself, unfortunately lacked Nadeja's reserve. Ludmila talked and freely shared loud opinions throughout the entire meal, gesturing with her silverware and eating with abandon. Draco was thoroughly disgusted, but the look on Pansy's face made it almost worth it.

At one point Ludmila and Viktor's friend and teammate Andrei got into a heated argument about politics and the conversation lapsed into Bulgarian. Pansy clutched her chest, her eyes wide with alarm; Viktor spoke in low tones to Nadeja, ignoring Andrei and Ludmila thoroughly even as the fork she was brandishing came dangerously close to Viktor's jaw. Goyle watched with mild interest, and Bianca smiled and continued to eat her pudding.

Draco had the sensation, as he had so often in the last six months, that none of this was real, that he was watching or maybe was part of an elaborate farce. He looked around the room, trying to shake the strange sensation, and his eyes met those of Tori Greengrass, dining with her sister across the room. She smiled.

Viktor, who was seated to his left, noticed the direction of Draco's gaze.

"She's very pretty," he said. "She is English?"

"English - yes."

"She didn't used to be so pretty," Pansy snapped. "She's had some work done, everyone says."

Viktor did not seem concerned by this, but perhaps misunderstood the gist of Pansy's comment. "Her work was very successful," he said. He cast a sidelong glance at Draco. "I heard you have traveled somewhat in the last few years."

Andrei slammed his fist down on the table and snapped something at Ludmila, but she shouted over him. Pansy looked terrified. Viktor spoke to Ludmila with an air of mild irritation, waving his hand to indicate the other people in the room.

An elf came around to serve coffee. Ludmila rolled her eyes and pushed away her dessert plate, announcing she was going to have a cigarette. Viktor invited Draco to join them as Goyle served himself another helping of dessert.

Ludmila had brought one of the bottles of wine on the table out onto the terrace, a small space carved into the cliffside, and conjured glasses for the three of them. Draco stared at the glass she held out to him and thought about declining, just a polite, disinterested wave of his hand. He thought about the meeting he would not be attending this week. But when he did not accept it immediately, Ludmila just set it down in front of him and raised the tip of her wand to light her cigarette. Draco took a sip.

Krum was staring off into the distance, watching the waves.

"You must have seen much during your travels," he said suddenly.

Draco did not react immediately. Sometimes when people said things like that, they were hinting that they wanted to hear stories - about parties or women or some of the trouble he had gotten into. But he had the sense this was not what Krum was asking. For one, as a rich and famous Quidditch star, Krum could have gotten into plenty of trouble himself, but was known to eschew parties and the wild lifestyle of many of his teammates.

"I suppose," Draco said. He began to have an idea what Krum might want to discuss. They did, after all, have interests in common beyond Eastern European models. "Beyond the scenery, that is."

"There are other beautiful things to see," Krum agreed. "I have heard that outside of Belgrade, there is a group of wizards with… unusual talents. You have been to see them, I think?"

"They weren't so beautiful. But I learned a great deal."

It had been magic like Draco had never seen before, so dark that the air around them had felt polluted. It had felt like the only real thing that had ever existed, had made every petty worry and thought and hope he had had in his life feel like a distant star, imploding on itself so far away that one had to squint to see it. Krum was watching him, and Ludmila, mercifully silent, listened closely.

"What will you do with this - knowledge?" Krum asked.

The tension in Viktor's voice spoke deeply to Draco, to the constant push and pull he felt within himself that left him exhausted and empty. It had been easier at first. There had been things that he could focus on, tasks he could complete, anything that would distract him. Living back at the Manor, that gnawing, nagging sense of desire followed him everywhere, haunted his thoughts and memories.

"It's enough to know," he lied, again. It was too much, by far, more than he had ever wanted. But it would never be enough. Draco drained his wine glass.

Krum nodded. "Enough," he agreed. "It is good to know, what is enough."

In his distant, dreamy tone Draco heard the echoes of the internal struggle that stretched out before him as far as he could see. Draco had hoped coming to Majorca might be an escape, but he saw now that he had deluded himself. The night might have grown melancholy, but they were interrupted.

The rest of the guests had finished coffee and piled out onto the terrace, the air suddenly full of chatter. Draco saw Pansy making her way down toward him, picking carefully down the narrow stone steps. When she reached the terrace her eyes fixed upon the empty glass on the table next to him for several long moments, as if she could not believe what she was seeing. He could not stand for her to look at him, so he slipped down toward the beach.

He could feel her eyes on him, feel the weight of her disappointment like a heavy cloak around his neck. He did not know why he had taken the wine, why he had not said no or simply ignored it, left it there. It had been purely instinctive. It had meant nothing. He repeated this over and over to himself

By the time he made his way back to the resort all the lights were off and there was a quiet that he felt deep in his bones. Down by the shore, Tori Greengrass was walking in from the water, conjuring a towel about herself as she picked up her wand from the sand.

Her tall frame cast long shadows on the beach as she shook out her hair, drew in deep lungfuls of air and simply stood, for several moments, breathing in the quiet. When her eyes met Draco's, he was startled to find how long he had been watching her.

She did not seem angry or surprised to see him standing and staring at her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that they might meet here, on this beach, the only two people in the world.

"Evening, Tori," he greeted her.

For the first time, she looked uneasy, discomfort flitting across her features. "I don't really go by that anymore," she told him. "Everyone calls me Astoria, now." The wind whipped her hair across her face, but her eyes didn't leave his.

"Astoria," he repeated, feeling as though he could taste it.

"What brought you out here tonight?" she asked him as they walked back toward the resort.

He made a decision then that surprised him.

"It's a special occasion," he told her. "Not tonight, I mean. But we're - we are celebrating. Well, the rest I'm with don't know. But it's six months for me. Sober. My mother thought I should go away."

She touched his arm and he looked up at her.

"Congratulations," she told him, the sincerity in her voice spreading over him like warm honey, and bid him goodnight.


	9. On Display

The catering was going to be late. One of the artists had pulled out. The venue was warning that they were at capacity, that they were going to need to pay for additional security owing to a few questionable names on the guest list, and that the gallery was not going to be available until forty-five minutes prior to the event.

Thankfully, none of that mattered, because Harry Potter was going to be there. Harry Potter had RSVP'ed to the charity auction and everything was going to be fine.

They had been trying to get him to commit for months. At first, they had hoped he might agree to have the event be held in his honor, with his name on the invitations, but he had flatly refused this. He had ignored several follow-up owls and hedged when Astoria finally tracked him down at the Ministry, pretending she was there on business. Unable to get in touch with his wife, who had been out of the country for sports reasons (Astoria would not dignify Quidditch with any more attention than this), Astoria had shown up in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes wearing her most winning smile but had still gotten nowhere. It was not until Astoria had persuaded Dean Thomas to contribute a few pieces that Harry had finally agreed to attend.

She tugged on one of her long curls pensively as she looked around the room. Ora stood looking severely at Inez, who was flirting with the DJ, and Richard and Wesley were arguing heatedly, but quietly, in a corner.

"I think you're being  _incredibly_  pretentious right now," she heard Wesley hiss.

At her side, Katy had not stopped talking for the past ten minutes, reiterating over and over again things that Astoria already knew - the order of presentation, the plan for sneaking in the catering so that it appeared nothing was amiss, what to do if any of the artwork seemed to be attracting less attention. After the first recitation, Astoria had tuned her out, but suddenly new and extremely alarming information came to her attention.

"Oh, and I think I mentioned, Harry Potter owled to say he couldn't make it."

"I beg your pardon," Astoria said calmly.

"Oh - just yesterday - he owled to say he couldn't be here, and he was sorry, but his wife - Jenny, maybe? Was going to come instead, and he hoped that would be all right."

"You did not mention," Astoria told her, no less calmly. "Thank you, Katy. I'm going to go talk with Richard. Can you please check with the DJ to see what he would like to drink?"

Katy beamed and hurried off.

"Richard," Astoria moaned.

He tossed back the last of his champagne - she had told him no alcohol before they opened, but no matter - and came over. "What, baby," he said, in a tone of deepest sympathy.

"Harry Potter isn't coming," she whispered, letting her forehead sink down onto his chest. "He owled Katy yesterday. He's _not coming_ , Richard."

" _What_?  _Damn_  him." Richard sounded aggrieved. "Did you tell him this was benefitting war orphans?"

"I did."

"He's practically putting them out on the streets with no shoes."

"He  _is_ , Richard."

"I am so sorry, baby," he murmured into her hair. "But I've got to dash."

She pulled back from him as if stung. "Richard - "

"I know, it's just, it's Wesley. I can't deal with him when he's in this mood. I simply can't."

"But Richard I  _need_  you - "

"Just ask him what he said to me. You'll understand. Pop 'round tomorrow, baby. If you're still feeling blue, we'll have sazeracs."

It was then that guests began to arrive, so Astoria had no time to let herself consider the thirty or so people Richard had invited that she had no connection with, who might be unbalanced psychopaths or awkward or rude or, worse, not have a good time. She could only smile and get to work.

The guest list, she allowed herself to acknowledge, was impressive, Harry Potter or no Harry Potter. Some of the most influential people in all wizardkind were in attendance; old families were represented, rising stars, the interesting, the beautiful, the famous, the unpredictable. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Draco Malfoy, standing with Pansy Parkinson, her arm wrapped around his. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else. Astoria's mind flitted back to the last time she had seen him, on the beach in Majorca at night, windswept. She wished Richard were here, and that she could pull him outside for a smoke and gossip.

Ginny Potter and Hermione Granger had arrived and were looking around uneasily. Astoria hurried to their side as quickly as the crowd would permit.

"How long do we have to stay?" Ginny asked Hermione as she swiped a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

Hermione had opened her mouth to reply but spotted Astoria first, and smiled and nodded toward her.

Ginny looked over at her, and Astoria recognized with some pride the appraising glance afforded between beautiful women. Astoria had not been beautiful for very long, but was so far enjoying it immensely.

"Hello," Ginny said to her. "Sorry Harry couldn't make it. Long hours at work… you know."

Hermione was smiling apologetically to compensate for the lack of sincerity in Ginny's voice.

"We're delighted you both are here," Astoria told them warmly, squeezing Hermione's hand and Ginny's in turn. "It's such an honor. We're  _so_  grateful."

"We're happy to support such a great organization," Hermione told her, as Ginny drained her champagne flute and picked up another. "Are you representing the foundation, or - "

"Eveline Diggory is an old friend of our family, but I'm not directly affiliated, just helping with some of the details - "

"Is that  _Malfoy_?" Ginny interrupted, disbelieving. "At a charity event for war orphans? Are you kidding me?"

"It's for a good cause, Ginny," Hermione said in a low voice, as Astoria retreated in the back of her mind to a happier time last summer when she and Wesley got smashingly drunk at her family's home on the Riviera and sat on the cold tile floor in the parlor wailing along to her mother's old Celestina Warbeck records.

Aloud, she said, "Mr. Malfoy and his family have been generous supporters of the foundation. We've all been impacted by the war, and we're all trying to find our own ways to make it right."

Ginny gave a small, bitter laugh. "Malfoy didn't have to search very hard," she said, and from the way Draco's head was angled toward them Astoria could tell he was listening. "Everything changed after the war, they say. Everything is different now. What's so different? Scum like him can still buy the public's goodwill, and we're all supposed to tolerate it because the ends justify the means."

Astoria saw Draco's hand jerk as if reaching for his wand, but he noticed her watching him. He scowled and thrust his hands into the pockets of his robes, shook off Pansy, and escaped outside. Ginny watched him go with some satisfaction.

"Mrs. Potter," Astoria said in a low voice.

Ginny rolled her eyes so hard she might have burst an artery. " _God_. I remember you from Hogwarts. Just call me Ginny and stop putting on airs."

"Ginny," Astoria agreed, not missing a beat. "I truly am so grateful you're here. Not just because I enjoy your company, but also because your presence will help make this evening a bigger success. I'm happy Mr. Malfoy is here for the same reason. I don't care why he's here, what his history is, or what his beliefs are. I completely understand that his presence offends you. But I hope that in the spirit of the evening, you might be able to overlook that."

Ginny searched her eyes for a long moment. "Well, it's not like I can kick him out," she said finally. "I mean, I could try. We might be able to raise money for that."

Astoria beamed at her, so relieved she thought she might start crying on Ginny Potter's stunning olive green silk dress. Instead, she handed Ginny another glass of champagne, which she accepted with a wry smile, and pointed her and Hermione over toward Dean Thomas.

"She used to have an eating disorder, you know," she heard Ginny tell Hermione as they began to make their way through the crowd. "She's still  _so_  thin."

Not waiting to hear how Hermione might respond, Astoria set off in the opposite direction. She mingled for an hour or so among the guests and artists, but her mind wandered - she thought about what Ginny had said, about how furious she was with Richard, how disappointed she was that Daphne had not deigned to show up.

Worst of all, as she bussed Martina Flint on the cheek and exclaimed how delighted she was that Martina had been able to make it, Astoria thought about Draco Malfoy. He had not returned after Ginny's outburst, but Pansy was still here, standing miserably in the corner and scowling at Ginny Potter, who was laughing loudly at something Dean Thomas had said. Astoria watched, with Pansy, as Ginny eased a painting out of the way and lifted herself up by her palms to perch on one of the display tables. Leonora Crouch, examining a painting close by, looked extremely shocked and seemed as though she might protest, but Wesley interceded.

It was not until Astoria found herself at the back door, smiling and whispering apologetically to Ora that she would be right back, that she realized she had had too much champagne; it was not until she had turned the handle and stepped outside that she remembered she had forgotten her cloak; and it was not until she saw Draco Malfoy, that she realized she had come looking for him.

As his eyes met hers, she realized he knew it too. He smiled lazily and her heart thrummed, but she did not smile back.

"I wanted to make sure everything was alright," she said, trying to appear cool and impassive.

"You wanted to make sure I hadn't left," he teased her.

She did not let herself blush. "I knew you hadn't. Your… your cloak was still inside." She could not bring herself to mention Pansy.

"You're cold," he said, slipping his coat off and pulling it around her shoulders.

"I'm fine. It's fine."

Astoria felt restless; he was too near, too warm, her head was full of champagne. She straightened up so that her back was flat against the door and pressed her palms against it.

"We should go back inside," she told him. "You've missed some of the best pieces."

"We have enough art," he said, waving his hand. "And most of it is terrible, anyway. Sentimental schlock." Belatedly he remembered who he was speaking with. "No offense."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," she said, smiling. "I read that once. It's a muggle saying."

"Is beauty the point, really?" he mused. "They're all just trying to make themselves feel better. Why else would someone bid 800 galleons on a watercolor by a seven year old that says 'I love you Daddy'?"

"It could mean a great deal to some people. A lot of the artwork comes from a very emotional place."

He laughed. "Sentiment isn't emotion," he told her. "This is a charade. People's real feelings about the war aren't something you'd want to bid on, nor hang on display."

"Maybe to you," she said, beginning to feel angry. "Maybe you don't feel something, but a lot of people here do - "

"Pretenders. It's all for show. You must know that. We grew up with these people. Was there ever such a bunch of tired old frauds? Don't tell me you buy it."

"I accept people at face value, unless I have reason not to," she said simply.

Draco gazed at her, his eyes unfocused. "That's foolish. People will take advantage of you. Especially our people."

"They might," she admitted. "But I can't stand to be suspicious. It's not worth it."

"Maybe it's not, if you're able to pay whatever the balance is," he said, sounding tired. "I wish I could. But it's not in my nature."

"What does it matter, what your nature is? One has to try to be a certain way - we don't just bounce like a Quaffle, with no control over our thoughts and actions." He was leaning against the door next to her, but she did not look at him, instead gazing out at the street as if nothing at all were on her mind.

"You don't ever feel that way?" he asked, his voice slightly hushed. "I mean - I try - I do, it's just - I am one way, sometimes, even if I don't want to be, and it feels like I have no say, no control - as if what I want to do is inconsequential, compared to what I'm going to do, regardless of what I want."

Draco was so close now she could smell alcohol on him; he must have gone out to a bar and come back, she thought dazedly.

"I think we always have a choice," she said, gazing at his white throat, the hollow curve of the underside of his chin. "Sometimes it's just - harder, than others."

She Apparated into a stall in the ladies room of the gallery before their lips met. She stood frozen, still clutching Draco Malfoy's coat around herself, her mind entirely blank, until she slowly became aware of the fact that her name was written on the stall door she had been staring at for the past several minutes.

ASTORIA GREENGRASS IS A SLUT

But the word "slut" was crossed out. Someone else had written beneath it:

WHORE (sluts don't get paid)

Astoria began to panic, wondering who could have possibly been watching what had transpired outside, until she slowly realized that this graffiti likely had nothing to do with the fact that she had nearly kissed Draco Malfoy, and was simply more of the garden-variety nastiness she had endured for the past several years. With a sigh, she took out her wand to begin clearing the indelible ink.


	10. Valentine's Day

The owl sat unanswered on Theodore's kitchen table for several days, becoming buried under other mail, bills, and receipts fished crumpled from his pockets. Theodore did not have an official reason not to accept the invitation. He did not even have an unofficial one. Just the hot surge of anger that whooshed through him every time he looked at the table, knowing that the invitation was buried there underneath the clutter.

_Nott - Drinks this week? Kappa in Soho, Saturday, 9pm. -DM._

He and Malfoy had spoken not at all for the past year at least, and only sporadically before that. They had never been close, but they generally respected and at times privately admired one another. As a boy Theodore had envied Malfoy's social fluidity, his athletic prowess, his brimming confidence, none of which came easily or much at all to Theodore. As they grew older Theodore became canny enough to realize that much of that was a smokescreen - but what did it matter? Even pretended confidence and charisma were better than none.

He replied Friday morning that he would be there and spent most of Saturday pacing his flat, trying to regain control over the fury that flared up every time he thought about Malfoy. He smoked and took a nap; then smoked again; then had a drink; then wrestled with himself trying to decide whether to cancel altogether. He felt very sharp around the edges and impossibly blurry inside. The door was shut and locked behind him before he could second guess himself again.

Theodore did not recognize the name of the bar to which Draco had invited him, which gave him some trepidation; the sleek, minimal exterior and stark stylistic flourishes confirmed his fears. This evening was going to be far outside his budget for the week, and perhaps the month. He hoped Malfoy might be thoughtful or at least boastful enough to pick up the check, but did not hold his breath.

"You can check your cloak there," the hostess told him, indicating a solitary door standing to her right with a tiny wave of her fingertips. She was the only waitstaff Theodore could spot in the entire establishment; apparently all the service was carried out in the kitchen, as it had been at Hogwarts.

Theodore hung up his cloak on the single gold hook that appeared behind the door. It disappeared into a swirl of purple smoke that formed swiftly into two beautiful koi fish, which swam spirals around each other before they dissipated.

Kappa's all-black interior was packed to the brim with models, socialites, and hangers-on, although it was difficult to see anything in the dim lighting. It was not the sort of place he would have imagined Draco Malfoy selecting for an evening on the town with an old school chum, but supposed he must have had his reasons.

Having decided when he had hung up his cloak that he planned to make this a memorable evening, Theodore selected a cocktail glass from where they hung next to the bar, tapped the glass with the wand, and ordered his uncle Roland's old standby, fairy gin, so named because traces of one of the ingredients turned it purple. At lesser bars he had visited, Theodore expected this ingredient was "wandwork," but could be assured here that the black nightshade juice that coated the bowl before being discarded had provided its own vivid hue.

As Theodore tilted the glass toward him to examine the brilliant violet juice, he glimpsed Draco hanging up his coat.

He spotted Theodore immediately, acknowledging him with a nod and beginning to make his way over, but Theodore noticed Malfoy's eyes were still scanning the room.

"Evening, Nott," Malfoy said crisply. "Haven't you found a table?"

Theodore glanced around at the sea of models, who were looking over with slightly more interest now that Malfoy had joined him, drink in hand.

"I only just arrived," Theodore explained. "It's good to see you."

"You as well." Malfoy was still looking around the room, with increasing impatience.

"How have you been?" Theodore asked him, watching as Malfoy attempted to master his disappointment as he failed to find whoever he was looking for in the crowd.

"Fine - just fine," Draco snapped. Looking over, he seemed to see Theodore for the first time, and laughed.

"No wonder the girl didn't offer you a table," he said, resting his elbow on a nearby high top littered with evenings bags. "You could at least have shaved. You look like you're trying to stir up unrest among the proletariat. Didn't you want to make an impression on some of these pretty young things?"

Theodore refused to rise to Malfoy's goading. "Not terribly," he said. "Is that why you picked this place?"

"Partly, I suppose," Malfoy said, looking around without much interest. "A friend told me about it. She said she might come by tonight, actually." His casual tone was at odds with the fact that he glanced over at the door every few seconds. Theodore felt suddenly, intensely bored with Malfoy; his petty condescensions and artless posturing were from a different era in Theodore's life, and struck him now as strangely anachronistic, as if Malfoy had shown up wearing a doublet.

Theodore ordered a second drink; Malfoy drained his and followed suit. Lacking common interests or any curiosity about one another's present lives, they fell back on abusing their old schoolmates, and passed several enjoyable cocktails in this fashion. Theodore was not ordinarily a gossip, but Malfoy relished it, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

"Vaisey must be shitting himself now," Malfoy was saying, chuckling. "Pansy's told me Lila is watching him like a hippogriff around her girlfriends, but Vaisey'll stick his dick in anything wet if it stands still long enough - she ought to be more concerned about her houseplants."

Theodore could tell he was drunk because Pansy's name sunk into the pit of his stomach like a stone. Malfoy was now sharing in lurid detail what he would do if Lila Urquhart paid him that much attention, but Theodore barely listened; anyway, he had heard Malfoy a hundred times before, boasting in the common room, basking in the attention of the bigger boys as they laughed at his jokes, while Theodore slouched by, trying to sneak up to their dormitory unnoticed.

"This isn't working," she had said.

Even in his small apartment she was standing an uncomfortable distance away from him. The pockets of her coat shifted as she balled her hands up nervously inside them.

She would not look at him, as she repeated what she had said, but he kept staring at her; not angry or sad or accusing, simply wondering. What had her day been like, up until this moment? Afterward, what would she do, where would she go? What would she wear tomorrow, who would she write to, what would make her laugh? It seemed strange that he would never know these things again, but stranger still that he had ever known them, that she had ever been anything but a stranger.

Now she was a mutual acquaintance; her name would be dropped casually in conversation, without the need for context or explanation, but he would never write to her or meet her for lunch. They might see each other now and again at social gatherings, but as they all grew older and further apart, even this passing contact would cease.

For now, though, Theodore wondered. What was Pansy doing tonight, while Malfoy hinted to Theodore about the many other women he was fucking? He imagined her getting ready for a party, or going out to dinner, maybe drinking wine and drawing a bath. One thing, he felt, was relatively certain - Malfoy was not wondering, and probably never would.

As the sleek silver hands of the clock on the back wall ticked past two, the crowd began to drift out, and Malfoy's mood became increasingly sour.

"Watch it," he snapped at a girl who, tottering a little on monstrous square heels, stumbled into him. Shocked, her friend wrapped an arm around her and pulled her away.

Eyes following the women as they collected their coats one by one from the closet, he said, "I expect she's been held up. My friend. I know she said she was going to stop by."

He tapped his wand to both their glasses.

"Who?" Theodore asked, watching his glass disappear in a swirl of smoke and another appear, fresh and sparkling, in its place. He found the gratuitous, obvious magic tacky, but could not deny the convenience.

Draco shrugged. He did not seem to want to talk about it but was unable to help himself. "This girl I met a couple months ago. Daphne Greengrass' little sister? I don't know if you remember her."

"I remember. She was in the  _Prophet_ a few days ago." It had not been a flattering article, in spite of the striking photo of her from some gala event in a long cranberry-colored dress and chandelier earrings that accompanied it. Rita Skeeter had called her a "sentient pair of eyelashes" who "would step on anyone's head to reach the next rung of the ladder."

"Oh, I don't read the  _Prophet_. It's utter trash these days. Whatever journalistic integrity it used to have disappeared up the arse of the new administration. It reads like fascist propaganda, not bothering to report any of the opposition to these so-called progressive ideas among the very people who have  _run_ the Ministry for the last thirty-odd years. The media are scared out of their minds, I expect, to say a word against the thugs in power now. Freedom of the press is a sham, one word from Shacklebolt and the whole paper would be shuttered."

Theodore suspected that Draco's problems with the  _Prophet_  had little to do with journalistic integrity, and far more to do with the tireless stream of bad publicity he and his family had received in the paper after the war. The Malfoy family had brought so many lawsuits against the  _Prophet_  in the last five years that a Wizengamot official had banned the paper from printing their names out of sheer irritation; for the last few years, Lucius Malfoy, until recently on house arrest, had been referred to whimsically as "Cockroach Cloistered."

"Hi," a voice said, to his left.

A smiling girl with small, even white teeth and honey blonde hair was standing next to them, her attention on Malfoy. A few other girls were gathered around her, gossiping among themselves.

Malfoy stared at her, taking her in with his slow, lazy stare. "Hello," he said. "This your stuff?"

"Yes," she said. "Thanks for watching it. We were dancing." She indicated the other room.

"No trouble," Malfoy told her. "I'm Draco, by the way." He leaned forward, fingers brushing her hand, and her smile deepened, revealing perfect dimples. The anger Theodore had felt all this week towered in him, a gathering wave about to crash and break. His wand was in his hand and his hand trembled.

"Corinna's out front," one of the girls' said to her.

"Happy Valentine's Day," the blonde girl called over her shoulder, as they all filed out of the bar.


	11. Like Family

The last several weeks had been complete chaos, and Pansy longed with her whole soul to have nothing to do but relax in a hot bath for an entire week. It appeared that Viola's wedding was, at long last, coming to pass. In typical Viola fashion, however, she had waited until the absolute last moment to announce this, and now their mother, fondly exasperated, was scrambling to work with the wedding planner on securing all the details. Pansy watched the proceedings with undisguised resentment, imagining how her mother might react if  _she_  had waited until March to announce she wanted to be married that August; it seemed, at the very least, unlikely that her mother would have indulged her with a ceremony on the beach in Amalfi.

Pansy was to be her sister's maid of honor, a gesture she might have appreciated if Viola hadn't explained that Pansy was the only bridesmaid shorter than Bertram's best man and so she had to be the one to walk with him up the aisle. Just as Viola was testing dress fabrics against her skin and wondering aloud about whether it might be nice for all the bridal party to do a cleanse together and Pansy was debating between tearing her own or Viola's hair out, she received an owl from Draco inviting her to spend the weekend with him out in the country at his family's house.

Instantly she felt ten pounds lighter, even as Viola pinched the back of her arm and "hmm"ed despairingly.

"Sleeves, then," she said, gazing sadly down at the bright fabric swatches. "Sleeves, for certain."

She arrived at Malfoy Manor around teatime that Friday. It was a warm spring day in April and the grounds were lush and radiant. She could not help pausing to admire them, green as far as the eye could see and flowers already blooming.

She had been coming to Malfoy Manor to visit as long as she could remember, but the grounds and the stately, austere house that dominated them still filled her with awe. The thought that one day this might all be hers to call home was almost too much to comprehend.

An elf showed her into the house and let her know that Master Malfoy was away but they did expect him back, and she was welcome to wait for him. When the elf returned, bowing apologetically, she said that Mrs. Malfoy was sorry she was being kept waiting and would be delighted if Pansy would join her on the patio.

"Pansy, what a pleasant surprise," she said as Pansy was shown out, the elf watching her with anxious eyes.

Mrs. Malfoy was wearing a pale blue dress bound around the waist with a strand of silver, her blonde hair piled on top of her head. Her large, clear eyes ticked up and down Pansy, without comment or judgment. She had been reading; Pansy caught a glimpse of the book, something called "The Question of the Cockatrice," by a mystery author Pansy vaguely recognized.

"It's so good of you to drop in, but I'm afraid Draco's not here," Mrs. Malfoy told her. "I'm not sure where he's gone, but I hope he'll be in this evening."

It seemed clear that Draco had not bothered to tell his mother he had invited her to come for the weekend, so Pansy did.

Mrs. Malfoy betrayed no hint of surprise. "Of course," she said smoothly. "I'm sure he'll be back soon. Would you care for some tea while we wait?"

Pansy accepted.

While the elf bowed her way out, Mrs. Malfoy told her, "I'm afraid it's just the two of us this afternoon. My husband has gone to Dorset. He's considering buying  _another_ boat _._ "

The other woman's expression remained cool and impassive, but she could not keep the disdain from her voice. Mr. Malfoy had only been released from house arrest within the last six months or so, and had celebrated with extravagant trips and purchases, among them several boats, on at least one of which Draco, violently hungover at the time, had been resplendently seasick.

Pansy could not say she was sorry to miss Mr. Malfoy; he had frightened her as a small child, and as she grew older she never found that he was particularly welcoming toward her. When she had brought her concerns up with Draco, he had said dismissively that his father was that way with everyone, but she felt little reassured.

The elf returned with tea, which she served in perfect silence.

"What do you and Draco have planned?" Mrs. Malfoy inquired, her eye resting on the elf as she bowed her way out.

"Probably relaxing, mostly," Pansy said, with a wry smile. "We've both been so busy lately, it will be good to take some time for us. We might go out in the city tomorrow night - it's my friend Daphne's birthday, he said he wanted us to go to the party."

"It's good to take time off, to focus," Mrs. Malfoy murmured, almost to herself, but then her attention zeroed in on Pansy like a bird of prey swooping out of the sky. "Do you find that Draco has been busy of late? What do you suppose has been occupying his time?"

The truth, which Pansy had no intention of telling Mrs. Malfoy, was that she had no idea what Draco did with his time. She had assumed all the times he had told her he was busy that he had had family engagements; but if he wasn't here, where was he?

Pansy gave a little laugh. "I expect that's my fault," she said. "I do apologize for keeping him away from you. He should, of course, be spending time with his family."

Mrs. Malfoy ignored her. "I've made allowances in the past," she said, her eyes gazing out in cool contemplation at the spring glory of the grounds. "I suppose I shall continue to do so. He's had a difficult time growing up. It's a difficult time to be a grown-up, now, in our position. He always had such ambition - since he was a child I've been afraid that he'll be disappointed when he sees what the world can really offer him. And now the world isn't what any of us anticipated. I imagine he's been rather worse than disappointed. You fret over every scraped knee, but it doesn't prepare you for the feeling when … when you're confronted with something far more serious."

The confidence from Mrs. Malfoy was unusual, but Pansy was gratified by it. She often had the sense that, for all the time they had spent in one another's company, they were virtual strangers. The gifts and cards Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy sent for Christmas and her birthday always felt like they could have been selected for any young girl; scarves, necklaces, chocolates, handbags. While many of the gifts they sent weren't to Pansy's taste, she wore them anyway, and kept them all, even the childish things that she had outgrown. Perhaps, she thought to herself, some day she could gift them to her own daughter - imagine how pleased a little girl would be, to have the same presents that her mother had received from Grandmother and Grandfather when she was a child.

The future felt so uncertain still, Pansy usually tried not to think of it; but there were times she could not help herself from sinking into these daydreams, like a warm bath with bubbles and lavender. She could not know, she reminded herself, how things might turn out. But still - it was pleasant, to have Mrs. Malfoy speak to her in such intimate terms. Like family.

"He's overcome a great deal," Pansy said. "I know he's struggled, but I - I'm proud of him. It hasn't been easy, but he's come very far."

Mrs. Malfoy's pale eyes passed over her. "I'm afraid he has rather a long way to go yet."

Discomfitted, Pansy took a sip of her tea. Draco complained often about the ever-critical eye his parents focused on him, their attentiveness, hovering over his every movement and feeling. The reason he had been acting out so much was this constant anxiety surrounding him like a cloud - it could drive anyone mad. It was no surprise he needed a release.

While Pansy did not entirely approve of Draco's behavior as of late, it was improved enough that she did not want to complain. It was unreasonable to expect that someone in Draco's position, with the sheer amount of social functions that he was expected to attend, would never touch a drop of alcohol for the rest of his life. As far as Pansy was aware, he hadn't been using drugs again, and that had been the real problem anyway. It was much better, she thought, for this to be a normal, regular part of Draco's life, so that it would never get so out of control again.

"It must be very trying for him," Pansy ventured to say. "Perhaps what he needs right now - more than correction - is just support, and encouragement, so that he can find his way."

Pansy felt she had erred in some way as soon as she had spoken, as she saw Mrs. Malfoy's neck stiffen. But there was an almost amused sparkle in Mrs. Malfoy's eyes as she glanced over at Pansy.

"It seems he has all the support and encouragement he needs from you, my dear," she said. "How lucky for him that he never need look elsewhere."

The elf returned to clear the remnants of their tea. As the door closed behind her, Pansy said, "I only meant that - I mean, I can see that he's under a great deal of pressure. I just want to help, to make things easier for him."

"Perhaps you can't," Mrs. Malfoy said.

Pansy shook her head. "I don't believe that's true. He needs someone to rely on, someone he can draw strength from. I can be that person, you know. He's - very important to me. I'd do whatever it takes for him."

Mrs. Malfoy gazed at her but did not respond directly. Instead she said, "One day when I was a little girl, just before I went to Hogwarts, my sisters decided to race doves. They used charms to makes the birds fly as fast as they could, but my sister Andromeda, who was a little younger, couldn't control the charm as well and ran the dove into a window. As soon as it happened, Andromeda ran away back into the house, but Bellatrix went over to see the bird and I went with her. It was still alive, but it had been badly hurt.

"Bella picked it up and looked at it. I begged her to fix it. She told me I could fix it as well as she could, but I reminded her I didn't have my wand yet.

"She laughed at me. 'Stupid,' she said. 'I mean you ought to break its neck.'

"Killing the bird, she said, was the only kindness we could offer it now; trying to save it would just cause it more suffering. I couldn't bear to watch, so she called me coward and made me go inside. Years later, she told me she hadn't killed the bird; there hadn't been anything wrong with it. It was only stunned, and it flew off a few moments later."

"That was cruel," Pansy said, thinking it sounded like the kind of horrible joke Viola might find amusing.

Mrs. Malfoy sniffed. "I won't pretend my sister overflowed with the milk of human kindness. Perhaps she only intended to play a nasty trick on me. But I felt the shadow of the mistake I might have made. It was far better, not knowing how to fix the situation, that I had left. What if I had broken that dove's neck?"

A locket dangled on a long silver chain around Mrs. Malfoy's neck. As she spoke, her fingers looped slowly through and around the chain in a perfect, methodical pattern. Even as she allowed the necklace to slip and dangle from her fingers Pansy continued to watch, her mind turning over the story.

All of a sudden the necklace fell from Mrs. Malfoy's long fingers and she stood up in a single, fluid movement.

"If you go into the city tomorrow evening, be careful," she said. "If you're feeling too tired to Apparate home, just take a room at one of the hotels. That's what Draco says he does, the nights that he stays in the city."

Before Pansy could respond, Mrs. Malfoy had left the patio in a ripple of heavy silk.


	12. Modern History

It had been a long, cold, wet winter, and now came the reward: London was flooded with warm spring sun, rare and beautiful. Muggle and wizard alike rejoiced; everyone was out of doors, the air filled with excited chatter and childrens' laughter.

Draco did not particularly care for any of it, but he was pleased by the weather nonetheless. On such a fine day, surely no one would want to visit the museum.

He had been pursuing her for months, trying to get her to agree to see him. Although he was careful never to call it a date, she was not fooled. She had said no once or twice, or apologized that her schedule wouldn't allow it, and a few times suggested alternate dates and times, which he suspected she knew wouldn't work for him. When he had seen her at her sister's birthday party at Lavender Lounge, however, she had finally given in.

She had chosen a public venue, in the day time, but he was undeterred. While he would have never envisioned himself on a first date at the British Museum of Wizarding History, he supposed it did present certain advantages.

Although there had been a few complications.

"I want to see the witch burnings," Teddy whined.

"Shut up," Draco snapped reflexively. Teddy worried his lower lip back and forth between his teeth. He was missing one of the front ones, and still wasn't used to it. Ordinarily he just added in a tooth (or a fang) to compensate, but Draco had expressly forbidden him from any Metamorphmagus funny business today. Accordingly the boy's hair was a drab, mousy brown, and today his freckles were simply freckles, not stars.

Draco glanced down. "You're not allowed to see the witch burnings, anyway," he told Teddy. "Grandmother said no. She saw them when she was your age and it gave her nightmares."

"I'm not scared," Teddy scoffed, but his attention was on the grand, moving marble fountain carved into a Welsh Green. He tried to squirm out of Draco's grip to get a better look as the dragon hissed at a fascinated German tourist, spraying water all over the lobby.

"Stop fidgeting, for God's sake - we'll be inside in a minute."

Draco wasn't ordinarily so short-tempered with his cousin - well, sometimes - but he was not pleased to be saddled with the child today. He had forgotten he had agreed to spend today with Teddy and had made other plans; he had tried to explain this to his aunt when she had Flooed him that morning to see what time he was coming to collect Teddy, but she would have none of it.

"You can tell him yourself you won't be coming," she had hissed at him, her eyes snapping with rage even through the fire.

Draco had tried, but with one look at Teddy's face, lit up with impossible excitement, his hopes had died.

"We're going to the museum," he had announced instead, cheerfully.

His aunt had raised her eyebrows at him as Teddy stomped around, yelling excitedly. Draco had shrugged sourly. It hadn't been  _his_ idea.

"Hi there," a sweet, soft voice said. Draco spun, but Astoria Greengrass was not speaking to him.

She was kneeling down so that she was eye level with Teddy, and smiling in a thoroughly charmed way.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Teddy," he said, looking as though he were torn between hiding behind Draco and standing his ground. He looked up at his cousin for guidance.

Astoria followed his gaze. Her expression of pleased surprise was not something Draco was accustomed to, and it made him feel unsettled and uncomfortably warm.

"He's my cousin," he said by way of explanation. "I'm sorry - I forgot I said I'd take him out today."

She straightened her dress as she stood up, her large rings glinting in the gauzy sunflower yellow silk.

"He's adorable," she murmured, as Teddy finally broke free of Draco's grip and dashed over to the fountain. "My mother has four siblings; most of them are in the States, but my mum's younger brother came to England when she did. He has two kids around Teddy's age."

Draco vaguely recalled that Mrs. Greengrass was one of the heirs to an American wizarding media company, Weisman Corporation. The Greengrasses were an old family, but the backing of the Weisman fortune had offered a substantial push upward into the top echelon of English wizarding society.

"Have you been to the museum before?" she asked him, as they walked over to catch up with Teddy after Draco paid for them to enter.

"A few times - once or twice before I started school, and once the summer before my fifth year."

"Oh, it's been ages then! They've got a new exhibit I want to see - correspondence from before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's first fall. My friend Emerson saw it a few weeks ago, she said it was really moving, it made her cry."

Teddy was over-excited by the giant marble fountain, and had transformed his head to match the Welsh Green he faced off with. Cameras were going off in every direction as the dragon hissed in surprise, soaking Teddy; Draco swept the boy away as quickly as he could, ignoring the excited murmurs and exclamations behind him. He could not tell if he was recognized or if they were just excited by the show Teddy had inadvertently put on, but it did not matter; his heart was pounding.

After drying Teddy off, they decided to go to the Stonehenge exhibit. It had been Draco's favorite as a child; he had been awed by the looming recreations of the standing stones, and was amused by the muggle theories the exhibit outlined about their existence. The actual stones stood not far from Malfoy Manor, and he had always felt a curious pride in them; more evidence of their superiority over the throngs of muggle tourists who flocked to the site, spouting inane questions and missing the point entirely.

More than pride, though, in the ancient site he found a sense of calm. He tried not to think often about his family, his legacy, the world his children would live in, fearing he would sink down into his own thoughts and not be able to pull himself back up. But the stones had stood for thousands of years, through war, famine, plague, persecution. They did not fear their legacy, and yet they would endure.

.

He had long fingers with high arches, smooth and pale as a worn stone. They were clasped absently over Teddy's tiny hand, which fidgeted restlessly as Teddy turned to and fro, distracted almost the instant something grabbed his attention, full of questions and speculations. Draco, by turns exasperated and amused, sometimes snapped at the boy or mocked him for things he didn't know - Teddy's proper wizarding education, Draco implied to her with an eye roll, had been sorely lacking - but Teddy was undeterred.

She was still frustrated with herself for ever having agreed to see him. When she admitted to Daphne where she was going today after a few pointed questions, her sister had sniffed and gone back to her book. On Astoria's way out the door of the flat they shared in Chelsea, however, she had said in her dry, slightly nasal voice, "Why couldn't you just tell him you're ill?"

Astoria had left without replying, because there was no reply to give. There was no reason - no good reason, in Daphne's mind - to be seen out in public with an engaged man who also happened to be a former Death Eater. Daphne would simply have owled that she was ill, and she would have said so in such a way that left no room for him to pursue her further. But then, Daphne would have never agreed to see him in the first place.

Men like Draco Malfoy did not approach girls like Daphne, because every line of her perfect posture spelled certain rejection. In her bearing, her spotless comportment, her unimpeachable good manners, she demanded nothing less than a perfect gentlemen. If waiting for this rare figure to present himself meant she spent many Saturday evenings accompanying their parents at dinner parties, it was preferable to compromising her standards.

It had always been thus for the two of them. Astoria remembered weeping in her mother's lap when the two of them were not invited to another child's birthday party, while Daphne had calmly worked on her summer homework. It had been even worse when they were teenagers. Astoria had been wild about boys, and suffered through seemingly endless heartbreaks and humiliations, but Daphne had remained aloof; after a brief flirtation with a boy from Beauxbatons during the Triwizard tournament, she lost interest in immature school boys.

Astoria could not help but envy her sister's seemingly effortless, rigidly perfect self control. Sometimes Astoria feared being consumed by her desires - that they could engulf her and leave nothing behind - but Daphne simply did not seem to possess any, at all. How could someone who eschewed sugar, caffeine, alcohol, sex before marriage, who rose every morning at 7, whose sole guilty pleasure was reading  _Witch Weekly_ , possibly understand why Astoria had agreed to go on a date with Draco Malfoy?

"This is disgraceful," Draco was saying to Teddy. "What have you been learning with your tutor? You're going to be revising for a week after today."

"Won't," Teddy said placidly. "I'm on holiday."

Why, indeed.

He was good-looking enough, she supposed - her eyes lingered over his high cheekbones and the sweep of ash blonde hair that fell into his eyes. As he reached down and lifted Teddy up to see a tapestry over the heads of two tall men in front of them, his blue linen shirt tail came untucked from his trousers. When she glanced up, she saw he had caught her staring and a slow, sly smile stole across his face.

Her heart was beating far more quickly than was appropriate in the goblin rebellion exhibit.

.

It was getting past 2 o'clock, and Teddy was growing irritable. Draco was annoyed, but sympathetic. He had never much liked museums, either, but they still had one exhibit to see.

The exhibit was held in the lower level. As they descended, words appeared written out in black ink on the walls, running through and into each other as more and more letters were written out.

"As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I express my deep regret…"

"His death is a result of the attack in Chichester by the group calling themselves the Death Eaters on 28 February 1973."

"...in Kilkenny by the Death Eaters on 11 June 1978."

"...is believed to have been killed by the Death Eater Robert Selwyn…"

"...died bravely fighting…"

"I extend my deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss."

Teddy's small fingers traced over the curling letters from the official Ministry condolence letters, trying to follow them back up the stairs as the ink slowly retreated from sight, but Draco tugged him by his other hand into the exhibit. The room expanded almost imperceptibly to accommodate them among the dozens of others present.

In the center of the room, a young man sat bent over a wooden table, quill in hand. Though they were below ground, beams of sunlight shone on his parchment, and the distant whistle of a kettle could be heard as his voice narrated:

"Dear Marion. I hope you and John are well. It's been a wet spring here in Durham. At work yesterday Pelham told me his muggle father was attacked on his way home in Covent Garden and he is in hospital now. I know you don't like me to worry because you are a big girl in the city and you can take care of yourself. Be good. Love, Matthew."

The scene in front of them spun and shifted. It was a grey day out now; the reflection of a rainy window pane appeared in Matthew's mug of tea.

"Dear Marion. Mother wants to know whether you and John are coming for Christmas. She does not want you to take the train with everything that has been happening. I wish I could warn the rest of the family that muggles are under attack so they wouldn't come, but I guess we're stuck with them. I'll visit you if you can't come up. Never fear. Love, Matthew."

The tableau spun, again. Now Matthew was wearing a thick jumper.

"Dear Marion. I read the muggle papers and I can't believe they don't know what's happening. I want to tell them. They can't protect themselves but maybe some of them could get away from here. I wish you would think about it. You could get leave from the university or study abroad somewhere. But you are too stubborn. You will make a brilliant solicitor. Love, Matthew."

The room spun and dissolved and Matthew with it. In the air in front of them was written, "Matthew Grenville, 1948-1977. Correspondence courtesy of Marion Wright."

A dark-haired teenage girl was now curled in an armchair with her legs tucked under her. In a gentle Yorkshire accent, she began, "Dear Gail …"

Prominently displayed in the next room was a collection of Albus Dumbledore's private correspondence, letters to a diverse group including Barty Crouch, Caradoc Dearborn, Fabian Prewett, Alastor Moody, other Ministry bigwigs of the time Draco vaguely recognized, and a few European wizarding heads of state. Though the letters were mostly so cryptic and heavily redacted they seemed even more like nonsense than Dumbledore's usual statements, tourists still crowded around them.

Draco could not begin to understand the continued reverence in which the wizarding world held Dumbledore. He had been a foolish old man, nothing more than a fake and a fraud. What, really, had he accomplished? After his death the Dark Lord had torn down his school, the laws he had supported, the muggle-loving culture he had fostered - everything he had worked his entire life to create - within months, but to hear anyone speak of him he had been Merlin reborn. He watched as the visitors to the exhibit all slowly, inexorably drifted toward Dumbledore's letters as though on a pilgrimage, their voices hushed with awe, hands hovering in the air over the letters as if they were something holy.

The war was such a simple narrative for them, a cause followed by an effect. Those who do wrong are punished, the righteous rewarded; if the righteous suffered patiently through the cold and the snow, they would be rewarded with beautiful days full of sunshine. They had swallowed the story the media had been shoving down their throats, that they were living now in the promised age of progress and prosperity after suffering quietly, ever so quietly, through the darkness. And they had Dumbledore to thank, him and the famous Order and of course Harry Potter, the savior of all wizardkind.

They did not see the shadows, did not feel the shadows inside them, did not stop to dwell on the fact that cause and effect and wrong and right had no meaning here. What would real justice look like, meted out impartially for all? There would, Draco felt certain, be no sunshine.

" _It is my mercy, not yours, that matters now."_

The old man's voice echoed in his head as he continued staring at the visitors accumulating in front of Dumbledore's letters. One of them turned to glance at him, curiously, and he saw it was Astoria.

She came over to him, her dark hand bent deferentially; as if she were at a wake. Teddy, as unimpressed by Dumbledore as Draco was, had fallen fast asleep on Draco's shoulder and did not stir as they ascended the stairs.

"Feels strange," she said softly, as they emerged into the lobby. "It doesn't feel real now, somehow, like it's just something I studied in school. How can all that have happened? All those people - and now it's just a chapter in a history book, an exhibit in a museum. Like it's a contained thing. Like it's over."

"Not over, maybe," Draco said. "But it's different, now."

"I wonder where that leaves us," she said, her blue eyes searching his.

She declined his invitation to dinner, as she had plans to meet a friend, but her regret seemed genuine. They said goodbye on the steps of the museum, a buzzing, nervous energy hanging in the air as the farewell lingered a moment too long.

"I'll see you in a few weeks, then," she said. "Goyle's wedding. You're the best man, aren't you? Daphne told me."

She tucked her hair behind her ear, the late afternoon sun winking off her rings.

"See you then," he told her.


	13. Childish Things, Part 1

The day of Gregory Goyle and Bianca Bedford's wedding began as the worst morning of Draco's life, and once in motion continued in that trajectory for some time.

He was aware that his mother had been calling his name for some time - hours possibly, or even weeks - but he was able to ignore her just enough to keep his eyes closed until she was standing over him, jabbing him with her wand.

"I'm up," he surrendered, but remained defiantly prostrate.

"Pansy is downstairs waiting for you," she snapped. "You were supposed to be at Brancebeth Hall an hour ago."

"What time is it?"

"Past one. What is the matter with you? What on earth did you do last night?"

"Don't remember," he mumbled into his pillow, which she yanked away from him.

"Get up. Before I vanish your bed."

He sat up slowly and immediately felt he had made the wrong choice. His mother stood watching him until he actually pulled himself out from under the bedclothes, staring blearily around for his robe.

"Get in the shower," she told him as she crossed to the door. "You smell like cheap perfume and worse brandy."

With a last withering glance, she slammed the door shut behind her. Draco sank back into bed.

He was not late for anything, he thought, because there could be no wedding. There was simply no possible way that Goyle was still alive after the stag party last night. There might be a funeral, but Draco would have days to recover before that happened.

Pansy did not greet him when he arrived downstairs and did not speak to him as they made their way out of the manor.

As he took her arm, preparing to Apparate the two of them, she said, "We need to talk."

"We're late," he told her. "Can't it wait?"

A black look came over her. "You're late," she snapped. "You're the one who couldn't wake up on time - couldn't control yourself last night - "

"It was a stag party," he said, exasperated. "I don't want to do this now. Let's go."

"It's disrespectful," she said, almost yelling. "To Bianca and Gregory, to me, and you just don't care - you're supposed to be the best man! You can't just show up hungover, whenever you feel like strolling in. Doesn't any of this mean anything to you?"

"You sound like my mother," he told her, rolling his eyes. "Goyle doesn't care, we gave him a great time last night. Why are you on about this?"

"None of it matters to you," she said, her voice breaking. "You're always late - if you're there at all - you don't care about anything, and that doesn't matter, but I care - and you can't even - "

"None of this matters anymore," he spat at her. "It's a joke, it's nothing, it's all gone. Everyone is going through the motions, but it's a charade, people are just clinging to it because they're scared and it's all they know. How can you not see that? You're living in a fucking dream. You can show up on time in perfect cocktail attire anywhere you like, Pansy. It's not going to bring back what all of us had before."

"What we had?" she asked softly, and he ignored her.

"Let's go," he said, reaching for her hand.

* * *

 

It could not have been a lovelier day for a wedding, but Astoria was filled with apprehension.

She had brought Richard as her date, after Wesley had given her a long speech about how he didn't want to spend his time around "these people" any longer, because in his view any level of discrimination was discriminating against everyone; if they weren't inviting muggleborns to their wedding then as a half blood he wasn't interested in being a part of it either. Astoria respected his views but missed his company; no one was more adept at handling the prying older society types who would turn out en masse for the Goyle-Bedford nuptials.

Richard would be useful, though, in his own way. He had arrived looking rakishly handsome in a daring single-breasted suit in dove grey with a pink bowtie; between that and the facial scruff he refused to shave off, Astoria felt confident the more conservative types would keep their distance.

"Dickie Fines? Little Dickie - is that you?"

Not everyone would be frightened off by muggle attire, though. Della Vance had hurried forward to clasp his hands and exclaim over how handsome he had grown up.

"You were such a chubby boy," Mrs. Vance said warmly, which Astoria knew Richard hated to be reminded of.

"Oh, rather," he laughed.

"And is this Tori Greengrass? Why, look at you! So lovely. What an angel. What a marvelous day this is! So many old friends. Celebrating a happy occasion for once."

Mrs. Vance bussed them both on the cheek and drifted off into the crowd. Richard rolled his eyes as Astoria.

"Sweet little Tori Greengrass," he teased. "Where's your illicit lover,  _angel_? Isn't he supposed to be the best man?"

"Hush," Astoria hissed.

Richard took her arm in his, surreptitiously casting  _muffliato_  with his wand inside his pocket.

"How he's still seeing that utter shrew Pansy Parkinson I'll never understand," he said boredly. "She's rich, but she's not that rich."

"Perhaps he loves her," Astoria said.

"If he's in love, he's doing a piss-poor job of it."

Astoria was not sure which prospect was worse. Whether he loved Pansy and neglected her, or didn't care for her and took her for granted, it seemed obvious he was not someone Astoria should squander her time with.

But as she mechanically scanned the crowd, she knew she was looking for him; as she had curled her hair this morning, spritzed on perfume, clasped the back of her robes, she had been thinking of him.

It had been amusing at first, to flirt with him, to let herself be flirted with. She had known immediately that he was interested in her, but she had thought this was something she could examine and discard casually, like a shell on the beach. A boy she had known most of her life suddenly taking an interest in her just as she had begun to find herself had been exciting and gratifying, but she was seduced by his attraction, lulled into complacency. When she realized the danger of her position at the charity auction, she was sunk deep.

"I don't think he loves her," she said to Richard, almost startling herself.

He gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Who would? Besides, he's obsessed with you."

Astoria had to believe he did not love Pansy, that there had been mistakes made, a history of which she was unaware. He could not love Pansy because that tension and the sidelong glances and the boredom and despair did not look like love to Astoria, and she desperately wanted love to be more and greater than that.

The ceremony was about to begin, and Richard and Astoria found their seats.

"Vaisey told me they have three readings," Richard murmured. "I told you we should have skipped this and gone straight to the reception."

"But you'd miss the bouquet toss and die an old maid," she told him lightly. He pinched her.

* * *

 

"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends..."

The final reading felt the longest to Draco; his head was throbbing, he realized he had forgotten his toast, and the maid of honor, who he recognized as a particularly irritating Hufflepuff from his year at Hogwarts, was staring at him with a look of consternation that made him want to frighten what few wits she had out of her.

"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face…"

It must have been Bianca who selected this reading, as Draco thought Goyle would have avoided the Bible out of sheer aversion to a book that long. He looked about as full of life and optimism as Draco felt; he could only hope they had hired a good photographer. It would take a skillful lens to blur the effects of the stag night they had enjoyed.

It had been Draco's idea to go to Bratislava, but Blaise had chosen the club, claiming that he knew the proprietor. If this were true, the man was no friend of Blaise's; they had gotten cheap liquor from dusty bottles and skinny girls. Goyle, predictably, had found no cause for complaint; any liquor and any pair of tits would do for him, and Blaise, the choosiest of all of them, had been pounced on by the prettiest girl early in the night.

Draco had been entertained by a girl who called herself Lenka and did not look a day over 16. She had warm brown hair, honey colored eyes, and unfortunately spoke the best English of all the girls and was eager to practice. He told her his name was Sebastian.

"What a handsome name," she said mischievously.

She asked him many questions about himself, and he spun a silly, fake persona, telling her he was a Gringotts investor who had arrived in Bratislava on dragonback. He had the sense that the girl was amused by his story, beyond the canned, sexy responses she gave.

"You are so funny, Sebastian," she murmured, looking up at him through her thick fake lashes as she poured him another measure of firewhiskey. He thought about trying to convince her to go to bed with him; perhaps she might if he found something very nice, with lots of sparkle, for her to wear afterward.

While he was trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to try to persuade her, he felt her soft fingers brush his cheek.

"You are so much nicer than I heard," the girl told him in a low voice. "All the girls, they told me about you. But they did not say how handsome you are."

He inclined his head toward her slightly and she leaned in, her small breasts in his face.

"The girls say you like fun, you like to party," she breathed in his ear. "It's true? You like to party? Me, too."

He kicked himself yet again for not having thought to get any blow before they left the UK. He and Blaise had both assumed it would be a routine matter to acquire it here, but the weaselly proprietor of the club had feigned ignorance.

"You have opium?" she asked, her lips grazing his earlobe.

A shock went through him that had nothing to do with her fingers on the inside of his shirt. "I don't."

The denial came easily but the reverberations lingered, a tingling in his limbs and in his mind. No one had ever asked before, so boldly; they had hinted, but they would never just ask, as if they were borrowing a cup of sugar. His friends and family might politely avert their eyes, convincing themselves that all the trouble was behind him, neatly tied up with a bow, but this worthless little Slovak whore had seen straight through him.

He felt rather than saw her withdraw from him, her sweet, expectant face becoming closed and remote. She didn't believe him, but it was true. He didn't have any opium. It was bound inside an old school book, buried in the gardens at the manor, next to the south-east end of the bridge that ran over the little pond. He had not thought about it in weeks, or maybe days, or hours. But it was there, and she knew, because she was just the same as him.

"So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

* * *

 

Pansy had expected to cry, but found herself dry-eyed as the ceremony drew to a close. Perhaps it was only that the ceremony had been so long, and she felt so tired.

The recessional began, and Pansy watched with little interest as the new bride and groom made their way down the aisle. Goyle's mother was wailing noisily, accepting a handkerchief from Mr. Bedford and blotting her eyes with great fanfare.

A year ago this had seemed like the most important day she could have imagined, but that felt like a long time ago. It was strange to think that she had been looking forward to this; she had been to weddings before, she knew what to expect, but it had seemed that this one was somehow special. It hadn't been, though. She was, she supposed, getting too old to get excited about these sorts of things.


	14. Childish Things, Part 2

"...and because of that and other reasons - we all wish Bianca the best of luck. I mean, the best of times. I - we hope - that the Goyles will be happy and - many happy returns."

Blaise Zabini, next to him, was shaking his head in disbelief; George Vaisey, to his left, was rocked with spasms of silent laughter. Pansy and Daphne Greengrass looked aghast; Mrs. Florence Higginbotham, drunk, had dropped her champagne flute in the middle of the speech, but the toast was such a disaster that nobody even noticed.

There was a stunned silence when Malfoy had finished, and then Bianca began to clap, smiling placidly. Her cousin, Hannah Abbott, who had been her maid of honor, followed her lead, and soon a belated ripple of applause began to drift through the hall, and Malfoy sank back into his seat.

Blaise nudged him and nodded across the room to where Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy were seated, still as statues, their faces polished and blank.

"Malfoy let slip at the stag night - pater's been threatening to cut him off again if he doesn't pull himself together. He thought he'd be able to talk him down. This isn't going to go over very big, though."

A flash of savage satisfaction that went through him at Blaise's words. What was Malfoy, without his family's money, without his name? There would be no flashy parties, no girls, no hand-waving and whispered exchanges to get him out of trouble; really, no Malfoy. His friends and hangers-on would disappear in a puff of smoke, and Pansy, surely, as well.

It was the second or third time they had been in each other's company since she had ended things last November. He had seen her at a Christmas party about a month after, and once in the spring at Zenobia Hampstead's birthday celebration at the Pearl. He had intended to talk to her, just to say hello, at the Pearl, but lost the moment when Vaisey, dared to chug a bottle of champagne, made it halfway through before turning his head aside and vomiting on Theodore, to Malfoy's rapturous delight.

Since Draco had resumed his seat at the head table the two of them had not spoken. Pansy focused on cutting her food into very small, delicate bites and pushing it around her plate; Draco looked like he was considering putting his head down and going to sleep. The only person at the table who looked more miserable was Hannah Abbott; she attempted to make conversation with Goyle a few times before giving up and lapsing into silence with the rest of the table.

As the meal concluded, Theodore, feeling reckless after two glasses of wine, determined to make his way straight over to Pansy and have it out with her. The nervous energy coursing through him left him with no alternative; he had to speak to her, to explain to her that she had been wrong to break it off with him, she had made a terrible mistake, but there was no turning back now. She had made her bed and now she would lie in it, with that foul, spoiled, cruel, arrogant child.

"Theodore, m'boy! You're looking well."

A heavy, be-ringed hand grasped his arm and Theodore's neck snapped around, startled, to see Horace Slughorn, his old head of house at Hogwarts.

Slughorn reached up and clinked his glass to Theodore's. "To the happy couple," he said mistily.

During Theodore's repeated seventh year, Slughorn - out of an impulse Theodore might have recognized as guilt in a less shameless man - had made a great effort to include him in the Slug Club, inviting him to parties, offering him introductions and recommendations to people in the Ministry and in the potions industry. Feeling both resentful and overwhelmed by his circumstances, Theodore had never bothered to follow up; it had really only occurred to him a few years ago that he might want to do so, and by then he felt it was far too late.

The old man had hold of his elbow and was leading him over to the bar. "They have elf-made  _schnaps_  from Austria, you know," he told Theodore, before ordering one for each of them.

Theodore took a sip and found it foul, but Slughorn was elated. "Truly a rare delight," he sighed, wafting the glass in front of his nose, and began to gossip at Theodore about some guests at a safe distance from them.

He could not wait to rid himself of Slughorn, could not stand to listen to the old man's prattle for another minute. But it wasn't as if any of the other guests were going to offer a more scintillating conversation. What was he doing here? Why had he come? It was difficult to believe he had ever had anything in common with these people.

"How have you been keeping, Theodore?"

He had the uncomfortable realization that the entire time Slughorn had been talking, the old man had been observing him. At school Malfoy and Zabini had dismissed Slughorn as a vain fool, but Theodore had been wary of him for that reason - his vacuous facade made it easy to mask his true intentions.

"I'm well," Theodore said. "Thanks."

Slughorn nodded and exchanged pleasantries with a middle aged couple who stumbled over to greet him.

"We must get together again," he told them warmly. "St. Clair asks after you every time I see him, Paula."

"In truth he asks if she's managed to find her way out of the bottle yet, but clearly there's no good news on that front," Slughorn sighed, as the couple passed, then added, "I thought you should know that your supervisor Sneha speaks highly of you."

There did not seem to be anything to say to this. Sneha was not there, so he could not thank her; Slughorn had offered no compliment, so Theodore could not thank him. Highly conscious of Slughorn's penetrating stare, Theodore settled for nodding awkwardly.

"That's good," he said.

"Sneha suggested that if you were to express interest, it would be the work of a moment to fix up a position for you. Get you out of the lab."

"Ah," Theodore said.

Slughorn had never paid this much attention to him. If this was guilt, Slughorn could keep it; all was forgiven; Theodore just wished he would go back to rubbing elbows and leave him in peace.

"I could also make a few introductions to some of my friends at top-level potions firms - research, commercial, any area of specialty you would prefer. You'd be asked to interview, of course, but a mere formality - my recommendation speaks for itself in these circles."

"I see."

The silence stretched.

"Not many from our House go into healing, outside of the private sector," Slughorn observed.

This, certainly, required a response. Theodore watched as across the room, Draco Malfoy bent close to Astoria Greengrass' auburn hair. He lingered a moment, then left. After another moment, she followed.

"It appealed to me. They do interesting research there. And I felt… it seemed a good fit."

How to explain to Slughorn the impulse that had drawn him to working in the lab at St. Mungo's, a position of low wages, little prestige and scarcely any room for advancement? He could barely explain it to himself.

It was not in Slughorn's nature to understand guilt; they had all been taught to repress this as early as possible, before they were aware of its power to destroy. Empathy was a weakness, reserved for one's most trusted companions, the people one could hope would not use it to overpower you.

Theodore would not call what he had experienced guilt; he would not say that he felt empathy; but when he had needed to make a choice between a job at a consulting firm offering a comfortable salary that could have maintained a lifestyle in line with his peers, and working at St. Mungo's, he had chosen the latter. The idea of a clean break had appealed to him immensely; but as much so, if not more than, the chance to do work that he felt was an unqualified good.

Over the years working at St. Mungo's the scales had fallen from his eyes; even an organization whose only goal was to heal the sick was plagued by internal politics, bureaucracy, inefficiency and waste. It was not a place he had any strong desire to advance - the executive staff were too heavily Hufflepuff to allow him much room for growth - but he remembered strongly the sense of purpose that had drawn him there, and coveted it.

Slughorn continued to watch Theodore and sip his  _schnaps_ , seemingly undisturbed by Theodore's lack of interest in the opportunities he had proffered.

"Long ago - many years ago - don't ask me how many years, I beg you! - I felt that way at Hogwarts, you know."

"You told us you liked having summers free, that's why you were a professor."

Slughorn laughed. "I like to remind children how pleasant it is not to be around them," he said. "In truth - I don't share this with everyone, Theodore - in truth, I was at Hogwarts because I cared about the future of Slytherin house. It's been a tumultuous time. I very badly hoped that we should not become a House defined by outmoded values, and the shortsighted power grab of a few outspoken people. Now, of course, we are bound to this; it's part of our story. But we are more than that. Greater than that. We must be - all people are, if they seek it.

"All the children who grow up in Slytherin cherish greatness, but many cannot bear to put aside their pride to achieve it. They have a narrow vision of what greatness can be. They lack the subtle sensibilities that the best of our House embodies."

Theodore finished the last of his  _schnaps_ , listening closely.

"I can't do this forever, Theodore," Slughorn sighed. "Dumbledore - Merlin rest him - dragged me back against my protests. I knew I was needed then. But I'm an old man now. I've seen two wars. I need to enjoy peace."

"You're planning to retire?" Theodore asked, after a brief break in the conversation in which Slughorn enthusiastically greeted a few more old friends.

"Yes, I rather think it's time for me to move on," Slughorn said airily. "Don't you? Perhaps we can talk it over more this summer. Ah-a! And here's Gregory! My dear boy, congratulations. I wish you all the happiness in the world. And doubly so to your charming lady."

Theodore's stomach dropped as he looked over. Pansy had come up alongside Goyle, stormclouds scrawled across her face.

"And Miss Parkinson," Slughorn said with a kindness that made Theodore despise him. "Always a pleasure."

He nodded to Goyle and Theodore and gave a slight bow to Pansy as he glided off.

"Daft old poof," Goyle grunted. "Where was he after school, when we needed him? Nowhere. Still, that's true Slytherin, innit. He looks after himself first. No shame in that. Alright, Nott?"

"Alright."

Goyle shuffled along to the bar, leaving Pansy and Theodore alone.

"I don't suppose you've seen Draco," she said, sounding bored.

"I haven't," he told her.

Her eyes scanned the crowd. "I think Florence Higginbotham is asleep," she said.

"She passed out half an hour ago," Theodore said, then added, unable to restrain himself, "Slughorn's just been talking with me about the Potions master position at Hogwarts."

She did not even look at him. "What about it?"

"He's thinking I could take it over this fall. Maybe."

Pansy sipped her champagne.

"Draco's in the vestry with Astoria Greengrass," he said.

He was sickened to discover how badly he had wanted her to react. The disappointment he felt when she did not was like a physical blow.

"Thanks," she said, and moved along.


	15. Through a Glass Darkly

The flowers in the dressing room were already wilting. To Pansy's eyes they looked as though they sank and drooped further with each passing moment.

"How is this, mistress?"

"Darker in the crease here," Viola's high, sharp voice cut through the air like the whip of a wand. "And more contouring here - no, don't cover up the beauty mark, I told you. I want it to show up in photos."

"Mistress looks very beautiful," Ivy said. "A beauty mark for beautiful mistress."

Viola rolled her eyes.

"What nonsense," she said to Pansy. "Don't use the bronze, for heaven's sake, she's the bride, not a showgirl he met in Monaco," she snapped at Liddy, who was doing Pansy's makeup.

Liddy bowed. "Of course, mistress - how stupid I am."

"God, you have to watch them every second," she said to Pansy, exasperated. "Pity it's tradition for the husband's elf to dress the bride. Ivy's always been the only one who knows how to bring out your cheekbones. This one's hopeless."

Liddy bowed again. "Please, mistress, I am begging your forgiveness. Miss Pansy is so beautiful, I am not worthy to be touching her."

Viola rolled her eyes again and huffed loudly, and Pansy said, "Water the flowers now, they're wilting."

"That's what comes of having a July wedding," Viola said, as Ivy lightly touched her cheeks with her fingers to set the makeup, accompanied by the faint crack signifying elf magic. "I told you, it's simply too humid."

"It's beastly hot," Daphne agreed. "There was a breeze this morning, but it's gone now."

"Not so dark in the brows," Pansy instructed Liddy.

"Don't be foolish!" Viola told her. "You'll disappear in all the photos - "

"I don't want to look ghoulish to my husband, never mind the photos - "

"What will he care?" Aster, her young cousin, laughed, sipping her champagne. "You're younger by half than his last wife, he'll be well pleased no matter how you look!"

"His wife  _died_ ," Lila said to her in a hushed voice, shocked.

"Two years ago," Aster said dismissively. "He's going to be all over you tonight, Penny, eyebrows or no."

Aster fussed with her fine dark hair in the mirror. Her elf, Henbit, gave a small squeak and rushed to set it back to rights.

"Is it true you invited Blaise Zabini?" Aster said, painting her lips a vivid shade of red with a lipstick she had smuggled in her handbag. As Henbit moved to take the lipstick away from her, Aster laughed and wiped the lipstick over Henbit's face. "He's quite handsome."

"I had to invite him," Pansy said boredly. "He was in my year at school."

"Professor Nott was in your year - you've not invited him," Aster said.

"It's a small venue, Aster. I couldn't invite everyone I would have liked to."

As Henbit reached again for the lipstick, Aster slapped her. "Down," she snapped.

"I wonder what it would be like to kiss Zabini," she said meditatively. "I'd like to try."

"You're sixteen, stupid."

"Seventeen next month," Aster said airily. "Still, I expect I'll be the youngest at the wedding. Something a little more fresh for him, maybe."

There was a very real danger that Daphne would claw Aster's face off, and that Pansy herself might finish the job if Daphne should weaken mid-strike.

"Fresh indeed!" Viola laughed. She found Aster charming; Pansy found her unbearable. But her mother had insisted that Aster be one of her bridesmaids. It was just one of the decisions made about her wedding party that Pansy had to accept. Her thoughts strayed to Maggie, her sixth bridesmaid, waiting down the hall with her aunt, who was one of the others.

In fairness, it hadn't seemed as though Eustace's daughter had been thrilled about it either. The child had been sullen and silent through the rehearsal, barely consenting to take part; only when Eustace had drawn her aside to speak to her privately had she gone through the motions, but the resentment lingered in her eyes when she gazed at her soon to be stepmother.

I didn't want this, either, Pansy wanted to snap at her, but she made herself smile and speak kindly to the girl. She would be at Hogwarts in a year or so, and until then, Pansy knew well from many of her classmates' stories of growing up how little time it was possible to spend in someone else's company on a large manor house. Maggie had her father and her governess for companionship; if she did not want Pansy's, so much the better.

"I do hope you'll behave yourself, Aster," Viola said, indulging their cousin with a fond smile. "It is Pansy's wedding. She's waited  _so long_  for this. We wouldn't want such a special day to be ruined by any unseemly behavior."

Viola did not look at Daphne as she said this, but she did not need to - all of their thoughts turned immediately to Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass, caught half undressed in the vestry at Gregory Goyle's wedding a few years ago. Daphne's whole face puckered at the slight, but she said nothing.

"Eustace's family seems so kind," Lila said, eyes flicking anxiously from Daphne's sour expression to Viola's amused smile. "It will be such a delightful day."

"The first of many for my sweet sister," Viola said, raising her champagne flute. "Cheers, to the future Mrs. Seton."

"Pansy, where's your glass!" Lila cried, as they all clinked glasses. Pansy shrugged.

"It's empty."

"Worthless," Viola snapped at Liddy. "This is your future mistress and this is how you look after her? Fill her glass, fool."

"A thousand apologies, miss - Liddy will go and iron her ears," Liddy murmured, levitating the champagne to fill Pansy's glass.

"It's fine," Pansy said. "Punish yourself after the ceremony. Hurry and finish dressing me now, it's nearly time."

"You musn't be so lenient with her - she'll get complacent," Daphne told her. "Tori let our elf get away with murder growing up and now he doesn't know what to do with himself, he just shuffles around. A firm hand is what they need or they grow fretful."

"They don't look it, but they can be quite sly," Tracey agreed as she adjusted the pearl accent in her hair. "Remember the Malfoys' elf? He raised a wand to his mistress. Where does that kind of behavior come from? We clothe them, shelter them, feed them from the cradle, as if they're part of the family. The ingratitude is really quite hurtful."

"Times have changed," Viola sighed. "Soon they'll be picketing for pay and vacation and sick leave. They'll have little unions. Would you join a union, Ivy?"

"Ivy would rather die than face such dishonor, mistress," the little elf said with dignity.

"Don't torment Ivy," Lila said anxiously. "You know how it upsets them to hear those awful ideas. There was a report on the radio about the elf rights movement the other day, our Crowley started punishing himself right in front of us out of shame."

"It's embarrassing for all of us," Daphne said. No matter how she adjusted it, the bridesmaid robes would not sit flat across her thin chest. She pursed her lips in annoyance. "I keep wondering, where will it end? What else can they take from us? What is the limit?"

"We still have our traditions. Times can change, but we don't have to. They can make their laws and trample on proper wizard feeling all they like - we don't have to follow suit."

Even as she said it, though, Pansy wondered if this were really true. They had been brought to heel, all of them, in ways no one liked to admit. If the war hadn't happened, if the world hadn't gone so desperately wrong, her wedding day today might have been a very different affair.

"I need to finish getting ready," she announced to the bridal party, and they rose as one.

"Good luck, Penny," Aster tossed over her shoulder as she left.

"You look so beautiful," Lila said told her, giving her a delicate hug, Daphne and Tracey smiling beside her.

Viola, the last to leave, touched Pansy's shoulder gently. "It's all going to be fine," she whispered. "You'll see."

The door whispered shut behind her, leaving a deathly quiet.

The flowers were wilting again. With her wand, Pansy added some water, but it did not revive them.

"It's time, miss," Ivy said softly. She stood close to Pansy, her simple cotton shift clean and pressed for the occasion; although she did not touch Pansy's arm, her soft attention gave the impression that she had.

Pansy regarded her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes stared back at her from a stranger's face, powdered, pressed, another woman's emerald tiara winking over her carefully coiled curls. A dead woman's tiara - Eustace's mother had passed away while Pansy was still at Hogwarts, years after she had seen her son married to his first wife.

"Have you thought about what I asked you?"

In the mirror, Pansy could see Ivy's small face melt into petrified anguish.

"Oh miss - I is so sorry, miss - but I cannot, miss. I is so sorry. Ivy is bound to serve the Parkinsons. Ivy will serve Master Peter, when he has a wife. It is so, miss. Ivy wishes - "

Ivy broke off, but she continued to stare, stricken, at Pansy's face in the glass. She did not need to elaborate on her wishes. Peter had always been her favorite Parkinson child. She would never have come with Pansy.

"It doesn't matter," Pansy told her. "I felt sorry for you, that's all. I only wanted to help. Peter's never liked you, you know."

Ivy's enormous eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away and curtsied deeply as Pansy stood up and shook out the long skirt of her robes. At the door, the rat-a-tat of her father's knock sounded.

"Pansy, are you ready?"


End file.
